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THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF      .„ 


HENRY   WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


REVISED     EDITION 


VOL.    III. 


THE   GOLDEN  LEGEND. —THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MILES 
STANDISH.  —  BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE. 


BOSTON 

TICKNOR    AND     FIELDS 
1866 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1866,  by 

HENRY  WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  :  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


r> 


v,  3 


CONTENTS 


THE  GOLDEN   LEGEND. 

PAGE 

PROLOGUE:  THE  SPIRE  OF  STRASBURG  CATHEDRAL  7 

THE  CASTLE  OF  VAUTSBERG  ON  THE  RHINE   .        .  n 

COURT-YARD  OF  THE  CASTLE       ....  25 

A  FARM  IN  THE  ODENWALD 32 

A  ROOM  IN  THE  FARM-HOUSE      ....  41 

ELSIE'S  CHAMBER 48 

THE  CHAMBER  OF  GOTTLIEB  AND  URSULA  .        .  49 

A  VILLAGE  CHURCH 55 

A  ROOM  IN  THE  FARM-HOUSE      ....  68 

IN  THE  GARDEN 70 

A  STREET  IN  STRASBURG 72 

SQUARE  IN  FRONT  OF  THE  CATHEDRAL   ...  79 

IN  THE  CATHEDRAL       ......  84 

THE  NATIVITY  :  A  MIRACLE- PLAY    ....  89 

THE  ROAD  TO  HIRSOHAU 109 

THE  CONVENT  OF  HIRSCHAU  IN  THE  BLACK  FOREST  112 

THE  SCRIPTORIUM 118 

THE  CLOISTERS 121 

THE  CHAPEL 126 

THE  REFECTORY 129 

THE  NEIGHBORING  NUNNERY        ....  14! 
A  COVERED  BRIDGE  AT  LUCERNE     .        .        .        .150 


iv  Contents 

THE  DEVIL'S  BRIDGE 154 

THE  ST.  GOTHARD  PASS 157 

AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  ALPS  .        .        .        .  159 

THE  INN  AT  GENOA 166 

AT  SEA 169 

THE  SCHOOL  OF  SALERNO 173 

THE  COTTAGE  IN  THE  ODENWALD       .        .        .  185 
THE  CASTLE  OF  VAUTSBERG  ON  THE  RHINE   .        .191 
EPILOGUE:  THE  Two  RECORDING  ANGELS  ASCEND 
ING  197 

THE   COURTSHIP   OF   MILES    STANDISH. 

MILES  STANDISH 203 

LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP 209 

THE  LOVER'S  ERRAND       ......  216 

JOHN  ALDEN 227 

THE  SAILING  OF  THE  MAY  FLOWER        .        .        .237 

PRISCILLA 248 

THE  MARCH  OF  MILES  STANDISH    ....  255 

THE  SPINNING-WHEEL 262 

THE  WEDDING-DAY  .               269 

BIRDS   OF   PASSAGE. 

PROMETHEUS,  OR  THE  POET'S  FORETHOUGHT       .  279 

THE  LADDER  OF  ST.  AUGUSTINE     .        .        .        .  282 

THE  PHANTOM  SHIP 284 

THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE  PORTS     .        .         .  286 

HAUNTED  HOUSES         ......  289 

IN  THE  CHURCHYARD  AT  CAMBRIDGE     .        .        .291 

THE  EMPEROR'S  BIRD'S-NEST        ....  292 

THE  Two  ANGELS 294 

DAYLIGHT  AND  MOONLIGHT 296 


Contents  v 

THE  JEWISH  CEMETERY  AT  NEWPORT     .        .       .  297 

OLIVER  BASSELIN 300 

VICTOR  GALBRAITH 303 

MY  LOST  YOUTH 305 

THE  ROPEWALK 309 

THE  GOLDEN  MILE-STONE 311 

CATAWBA  WINE 314 

SANTA  FILOMENA 317 

THE  DISCOVERER  OF  THE  NORTH  CAPE  .        .        .319 

DAYBREAK 324 

THE  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY  OF  AGASSIZ      .        .        .  325 

CHILDREN 326 

SANDALPHON 328 

EPIMETHEUS,  OR  THE  POET'S  AFTERTHOUGHT      .  331 

NOTES 337 


THE 


GOLDEN     LEGEND 


185 


Lux,  Dux,  LEX,  REX.  On  the  northern  wall  of  the 
church  of  St  Pierre  de  Dorat  is  sculptured  a  simple  Greek 
cross  with  this  inscription.  It  represents  the  Cross  as  the 
light  and  guide  and  law  and  leader  of  the  world.  These  all 
centre  in  the  Cross,  and  radiate  from  it  See  Didron,  Icono- 
graphie,  p.  408  ;  Millington's  Translation,  I.  399. 


PROLOGUE 


Night  and  storm.     LUCIFER,  with  the  Powers  of  the  Air,  try 
ing  to  tear  down  the  Cross. 

LUCIFER. 

HASTEN  !  hasten ! 
O  ye  spirits ! 

From  its  station  drag  the  ponderous 
Cross  of  iron,  that  to  mock  us 
Is  uplifted  high  in  air ! 

VOICES. 

O,  we  cannot ! 
For  around  it 

All  the  Saints  and  Guardian  Angels 
Throng  in  legions  to  protect  it ; 
They  defeat  us  everywhere  ! 

THE   BELLS. 

Laudo  Deum  verum ! 
Plebem  voco ! 
Congrego  clerum ! 


8  The  Golden  Legend 

LUCIFER. 
Lower!  lower! 

Hover  downward ! 
Seize  the  loud,  vociferous  bells,  and 
Clashing,  clanging,  to  the  pavement 
Hurl  them  from  their  windy  tower  ! 

VOICES. 
All  thy  thunders 

Here  are  harmless ! 
For  these  bells  have  been  anointed, 
And  baptized  with  holy  water ! 
They  defy  our  utmost  power. 

THE   BELLS. 

Defunctos  ploro ! 
Pestem  fugo ! 
Festa  decoro ! 

LUCIFER. 

Shake  the  casements ! 
Break  the  painted 

Panes,  that  flame  with  gold  and  crimson 
Scatter  them  like  leaves  of  Autumn, 
Swept  away  before  the  blast ! 

VOICES. 

O,  we  cannot ! 

The  Archangel 

Michael  flames  from  every  window, 

With  the  sword  of  fire  that  drove  us 

Headlong,  out  of  heaven,  aghast ! 


The  Golden  Legend 

THE    BELLS. 

Funera  plango ! 
Fulgura  frango ! 
Sabbata  pango ! 

LUCIFER. 

Aim  your  lightnings 

At  the  oaken, 

Massive,  iron-studded  portals ! 

Sack  the  house  of  God,  and  scatter 

Wide  the  ashes  of  the  dead ! 

VOICES. 

O,  we  cannot ! 

The  Apostles 

And  the  Martyrs,  wrapped  in  mantles, 

Stand  as  warders  at  the  entrance, 

Stand  as  sentinels  o'erhead ! 

THE    BELLS. 

Excito  lentos ! 
Dissipo  ventos ! 
Paco  cruentos  ! 

LUCIFER. 

Baffled!  baffled! 

Inefficient, 

Craven  spirits !  leave  this  labor 

Unto  Time,  the  great  Destroyer ! 

Come  away,  ere  night  is  gone ! 


io  The  Golden  Legend 

VOICES. 

Onward !  onward ! 
With  the  night-wind, 
Over  field  and  farm  and  forest, 
Lonely  homestead,  darksome  hamlet, 
Blighting  all  we  breathe  upon  ! 

They  sweep  away.     Organ  and  Gregorian  Chant. 

CHOIR. 

Nocte  surgentes 
Vigilemus  omnes ! 


THE    GOLDEN    LEGEND 


I. 


THE   CASTLE  OF   VAUTSBERG  ON  THE   RHINE 

A  chamber  in  a  tower.     PRINCE  HENRY,  sitting  alone,  ill  and 
restless.     Midnight. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

I    CANNOT  sleep  !  my  fervid  brain 
Calls  up  the  vanished  Past  again, 
And  throws  its  misty  splendors  deep 
Into  the  pallid  realms  of  sleep  ! 
A  breath  from  that  far-distant  shore 
Comes  freshening  ever  more  and  more, 
And  wafts  o'er  intervening  seas 
Sweet  odors  from  the  Hesperides  ! 
A  wind,  that  through  the  corridor 
Just  stirs  the  curtain,  and  no  more, 
And,  touching  the  aeolian  strings, 
Faints  with  the  burden  that  it  brings  ! 
Come  back  !  ye  friendships  long  departed  ! 
That  like  o'erflowing  streamlets  started, 
And  now  are  dwindled,  one  by  one, 
To  stony  channels  in  the  sun ! 


12  The  Golden  Legend 

Come  back  !  ye  friends,  whose  lives  are  ended, 
Come  back,  with  all  that  light  attended, 
Which  seemed  to  darken  and  decay 
When  ye  arose  and  went  away ! 

They  come,  the  shapes  of  joy  and  woe, 
The  airy  crowds  of  long-ago, 
The  dreams  and  fancies  known  of  yore, 
That  have  been,  and  shall  be  no  more. 
They  change  the  cloisters  of  the  night 
Into  a  garden  of  delight ; 
They  make  the  dark  and  dreary  hours 
Open  and  blossom  into  flowers ! 
I  would  not  sleep !     I  love  to  be 
Again  in  their  fair  company  ; 
But  ere  my  lips  can  bid  them  stay, 
They  pass  and  vanish  quite  away ! 
Alas  !  our  memories  may  retrace 
Each  circumstance  of  time  and  place, 
Season  and  scene  come  back  again, 
And  outward  things  unchanged  remain  ; 
The  rest  we  cannot  reinstate  ; 
Ourselves  we  cannot  re-create, 
Nor  set  our  souls  to  the  same  key 
Of  the  remembered  harmony  ! 

Rest !  rest !     O,  give  me  rest  and  peace  ! 
The  thought  of  life  that  ne'er  shall  cease 
Has  something  in  it  like  despair, 


The  Golden  Legend  13 

A  weight  I  am  too  weak  to  bear ! 
Sweeter  to  this  afflicted  breast 
The  thought  of  never-ending  rest ! 
Sweeter  the  undisturbed  and  deep 
Tranquillity  of  endless  sleep  ! 

A  flash  of  lightning,  out  of  which  LUCIFER  appears,  in  the 
garb  of  a  travelling  Physician. 

LUCIFER. 

All  hail  Prince  Henry ! 

PRINCE  HENRY,  starting. 

Who  is  it  speaks  ? 
Who  and  what  are  you  ? 

LUCIFER. 

One  who  seeks 
A  moment's  audience  with  the  Prince. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

When  came  you  in  ? 

LUCIFER. 

A  moment  since. 

I  found  your  study  door  unlocked, 
And  thought  you  answered  when  I  knocked. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

I  did  not  hear  you. 

LUCIFER. 

You  heard  the  thunder ; 


14  The  Golden  Legend 

It  was  loud  enough  to  waken  the  dead. 
And  it  is  not  a  matter  of  special  wonder 
That,  when  God  is  walking  overhead, 
You  should  not  hear  my  feeble  tread. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

What  may  your  wish  or  purpose  be  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Nothing  or  everything,  as  it  pleases 
Your  Highness.     You  behold  in  me 
Only  a  travelling  Physician  ; 
One  of  the  few  who  have  a  mission 
To  cure  incurable  diseases, 
Or  those  that  are  called  so. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Can  you  bring 
The  dead  to  life  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Yes ;  very  nearly. 

And,  what  is  a  wiser  and  better  thing, 
Can  keep  the  living  from  ever  needing 
Such  an  unnatural,  strange  proceeding, 
By  showing  conclusively  and  clearly 
That  death  is  a  stupid  blunder  merely, 
And  not  a  necessity  of  our  lives. 
My  being  here  is  accidental ; 
The  storm,  that  against  your  casement  drives, 
In  the  little  village  below  waylaid  me. 


The  Golden  Legend  15 

And  there  I  heard,  with  a  secret  delight, 
Of  your  maladies  physical  and  mental, 
Which  neither  astonished  nor  dismayed  me. 
And  I  hastened  hither,  though  late  in  the  night, 
To  proffer  my  aid ! 

PRINCE    HENRY,  ironically, 

For  this  you  came ! 
Ah,  how  can  I  ever  hope  to  requite 
This  honor  from  one  so  erudite  ? 

LUCIFER. 

The  honor  is  mine,  or  will  be  when 
I  have  cured  your  disease. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

But  not  till  then. 

LUCIFER. 

What  is  your  illness  ? 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

It  has  no  name. 

A  smouldering,  dull,  perpetual  flame, 
As  in  a  kiln,  burns  in  my  veins, 
Sending  up  vapors  to  the  head ; 
My  heart  has  become  a  dull  lagoon, 
Which  a  kind  of  leprosy  drinks  and  drains  ; 
I  am  accounted  as  one  who  is  dead, 
And,  indeed,  I  think  that  I  shall  be  soon. 


1 6  The  Golden  Legend 

LUCIFER. 

And  has  Gordonius  the  Divine, 
In  his  famous  Lily  of  Medicine,  — 
I  see  the  book  lies  open  before  you,  — 
No  remedy  potent  enough  to  restore  you  ? 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

None  whatever ! 

LUCIFER. 

The  dead  are  dead, 

And  their  oracles  dumb,  when  questioned 
Of  the  new  diseases  that  human  life 
Evolves  in  its  progress,  rank  and  rife. 
Consult  the  dead  upon  things  that  were, 
But  the  living  only  on  things  that  are. 
Have  you  done  this,  by  the  appliance 
And  aid  of  doctors  ? 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Ay,  whole  schools 

Of  doctors,  with  their  learned  rules  ; 
But  the  case  is  quite  beyond  their  science. 
Even  the  doctors  of  Salem 
Send  me  back  word  they  can  discern 
No  cure  for  a  malady  like  this, 
Save  one  which  in  its  nature  is 
Impossible,  and  cannot  be  ! 

LUCIFER. 
That  sounds  oracular ! 


The  Golden  Legend  17 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Unendurable ! 

LUCIFER. 

What  is  their  remedy  ? 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

You  shall  see  ; 
Writ  in  this  scroll  is  the  mystery. 

LUCIFER,  reading. 

"  Not  to  be  cured,  yet  not  incurable  ! 

The  only  remedy  that  remains 

Is  the  blood  that  flows  from  a  maiden's  veins, 

Who  of  her  own  free  will  shall  die, 

And  give  her  life  as  the  price  of  yours !  " 

That  is  the  strangest  of  all  cures, 

And  one,  I  think,  you  will  never  try ; 

The  prescription  you  may  well  put  by, 

As  something  impossible  to  find 

Before  the  world  itself  shall  end  ! 

And  yet  who  knows  ?     One  cannot  say 

That  into  some  maiden's  brain  that  kind 

Of  madness  will  not  find  its  way. 

Meanwhile  permit  me  to  recommend, 

As  the  matter  admits  of  no  delay, 

My  wonderful  Catholicon, 

Of  very  subtile  and  magical  powers ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Purge  with  your  nostrums  and  drugs  infernal 

VOL.   VI.  B 


1 8  The  Golden  Legend 

The  spouts  and  gargoyles  of  these  towers, 
Not  me  !     My  faith  is  utterly  gone 
In  every  power  but  the  Power  Supernal ! 
Pray  tell  me,  of  what  school  are  you  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Both  of  the  Old  and  of  the  New  ! 
The  school  of  Hermes  Trismegistus, 
Who  uttered  his  oracles  sublime 
Before  the  Olympiads,  in  the  dew 
Of  the  early  dusk  and  dawn  of  Time, 
The  reign  of  dateless  old  Hephaestus ! 
As  northward,  from  its  Nubian  springs, 
The  Nile,  forever  new  and  old, 
Among  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Its  mighty,  mystic  stream  has  rolled  ; 
So,  starting  from  its  fountain-head 
Under  the  lotus-leaves  of  Isis, 
From  the  dead  demigods  of  eld, 
Through  long,  unbroken  lines  of  kings 
Its  course  the  sacred  art  has  held, 
Unchecked,  unchanged  by  man's  devices. 
This  art  the  Arabian  Geber  taught, 
And  in  alembics,  finely  wrought, 
Distilling  herbs  and  flowers,  discovered 
The  secret  that  so  long  had  hovered 
Upon  the  misty  verge  of  Truth, 
The  Elixir  of  Perpetual  Youth, 
Called  Alcohol,  in  the  Arab  speech ! 
Like  him,  this  wondrous  lore  I  teach  ! 


The  Golden  Legend  19 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

What !  an  adept  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Nor  less,  nor  more  ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

I  am  a  reader  of  your  books, 

A  lover  of  that  mystic  lore  ! 

With  such  a  piercing  glance  it  looks 

Into  great  Nature's  open  eye, 

And  sees  within  it  trembling  lie 

The  portrait  of  the  Deity ! 

And  yet,  alas !  with  all  my  pains, 

The  secret  and  the  mystery 

Have  baffled  and  eluded  me, 

Unseen  the  grand  result  remains ! 

LUCIFER,    shewing  a  flask. 

Behold  it  here  !  this  little  flask 
Contains  the  wonderful  quintessence, 
The  perfect  flower  and  efflorescence, 
Of  all  the  knowledge  man  can  ask  ! 
Hold  it  up  thus  against  the  light ! 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

How  limpid,  pure,  and  crystalline, 
How  quick,  and  tremulous,  and  bright 
The  little  wavelets  dance  and  shine, 
As  were  it  the  Water  of  Life  in  sooth  ! 


2O  The  Golden  Legend 

LUCIFER. 

It  is  !     It  assuages  every  pain, 
Cures  all  disease,  and  gives  again 
To  age  the  swift  delights  of  youth. 
Inhale  its  fragrance. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

It  is  sweet 

A  thousand  different  odors  meet 
And  mingle  in  its  rare  perfume, 
Such  as  the  winds  of  summer  waft 
At  open  windows  through  a  room ! 

LUCIFER. 
Will  you  not  taste  it  ? 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Will  one  draught 
Suffice  ? 

LUCIFER. 

If  not,  you  can  drink  more. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Into  this  crystal  goblet  pour 
So  much  as  safely  I  may  drink. 

LUCIFER,  pouring. 
Let  not  the  quantity  alarm  you ; 
You  may  drink  all ;  it  will  not  harm  you. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

I  am  as  one  who  on  the  brink 


The  Golden  Legend  21 

Of  a  dark  river  stands  and  sees 
The  waters  flow,  the  landscape  dim 
Around  him  waver,  wheel,  and  swim, 
And,  ere  he  plunges,  stops  to  think 
Into  what  whirlpools  he  may  sink ; 
One  moment  pauses,  and  no  more, 
Then  madly  plunges  from  the  shore ! 
Headlong  into  the  mysteries 
Of  life  and  death  I  boldly  leap, 
Nor  fear  the  fateful  current's  sweep, 
Nor  what  in  ambush  lurks  below ! 
For  death  is  better  than  disease  ! 

An  ANGEL  with  an  aolian  harp  hovers  in  the  air. 
ANGEL. 

Woe !  woe !  eternal  woe  ! 

Not  only  the  whispered  prayer 

Of  love, 

But  the  imprecations  of  hate, 

Reverberate 

For  ever  and  ever  through  the  air 

Above ! 

This  fearful  curse 

Shakes  the  great  universe ! 

LUCIFER,  disappearing. 
Drink !  drink ! 
And  thy  soul  shall  sink 
Down  into  the  dark  abyss, 


22  The  Golden  Legend 

Into  the  infinite  abyss, 

From  which  no  plummet  nor  rope 

Ever  drew  up  the  silver  sand  of  hope ! 

PRINCE  HENRY,   drinking. 
It  is  like  a  draught  of  fire  ! 
Through  every  vein 
I  feel  again 

The  fever  of  youth,  the  soft  desire ; 
A  rapture  that  is  almost  pain 
Throbs  in  my  heart  and  fills  my  brain ! 
O  joy !     O  joy  !     I  feel 
The  band  of  steel 

That  so  long  and  heavily  has  pressed 
Upon  my  breast 
Uplifted,  and  the  malediction 
Of  my  afHiction 

Is  taken  from  me,  and  my  weary  breast 
At  length  finds  rest. 

THE   ANGEL. 

It  is  but  the  rest  of  the  fire,  from  which  the  air  has 

been  taken ! 
It  is  but  the  rest  of  the  sand,  when  the  hourglass 

is  not  shaken  ! 
It  is  but  the  rest  of  the  tide  between  the  ebb  and 

the  flow ! 
It  is  but  the  rest  of  the  wind  between  the  flaws 

that  blow  ! 
With  fiendish  laughter, 


The  Golden  Legend  23 

Hereafter, 

This  false  physician 

Will  mock  thee  in  thy  perdition. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

Speak !  speak ! 

Who  says  that  I  am  ill  ? 

I  am  not  ill !     I  am  not  weak  ! 

The  trance,  the  swoon,  the  dream,  is  o'er ! 

I  feel  the  chill  of  death  no  more ! 

At  length, 

I  stand  renewed  in  all  my  strength ! 

Beneath  me  I  can  feel 

The  great  earth  stagger  and  reel, 

As  if  the  feet  of  a  descending  God 

Upon  its  surface  trod, 

And  like  a  pebble  it  rolled  beneath  his  heel ! 

This,  O  brave  physician  !  this 

Is  thy  great  Palingenesis  ! 

Drinks  again. 

THE   ANGEL. 

Touch  the  goblet  no  more  ! 
It  will  make  thy  heart  sore 
To  its  very  core ! 
Its  perfume  is  the  breath 
Of  the  Angel  of  Death, 
And  the  light  that  within  it  lies 
Is  the  flash  of  his  evil  eyes. 
Beware  !     O,  beware  ! 


24  The  Golden  Legend 

For  sickness,  sorrow,  and  care 
All  are  there ! 

PRINCE    HENRY,   sinking  back. 

0  thou  voice  within  my  breast ! 
Why  entreat  me,  why  upbraid  me, 
When  the  steadfast  tongues  of  truth 
And  the  flattering  hopes  of  youth 
Have  all  deceived  me  and  betrayed  me  ? 
Give  me,  give  me  rest,  O  rest ! 
Golden  visions  wave  and  hover, 
Golden  vapors,  waters  streaming, 
Landscapes  moving,  changing,  gleaming ! 

1  am  like  a  happy  lover 

Who  illumines  life  with  dreaming ! 
Brave  physician  !     Rare  physician  ! 
Well  hast  thou  fulfilled  thy  mission ! 
His  head  falls  on  his  book. 

THE  ANGEL,  receding. 

Alas!  alas! 

Like  a  vapor  the  golden  vision 

Shall  fade  and  pass, 

And  thou  wilt  find  in  thy  heart  again 

Only  the  blight  of  pain, 

And  bitter,  bitter,  bitter  contrition ! 


COURT-YARD  OF  THE  CASTLE 

HUBERT  standing  by  the  gateway. 

HUBERT. 

How  sad  the  grand  old  castle  looks  ! 
O'erhead,  the  unmolested  rooks 
Upon  the  turret's  windy  top 
Sit,  talking  of  the  farmer's  crop ; 
Here  in  the  court-yard  springs  the  grass, 
So  few  are  now  the  feet  that  pass  ; 
The  stately  peacocks,  bolder  grown, 
Come  hopping  down  the  steps  of  stone, 
As  if  the  castle  were  their  own  ; 
And  I,  the  poor  old  seneschal, 
Haunt,  like  a  ghost,  the  banquet-hall. 
Alas  !  the  merry  guests  no  more 
Crowd  through  the  hospitable  door ; 
No  eyes  with  youth  and  passion  shine, 
No  cheeks  grow  redder  than  the  wine  ; 
No  song,  no  laugh,  no  jovial  din 
Of  drinking  wassail  to  the  pin ; 
But  all  is  silent,  sad,  and  drear, 
And  now  the  only  sounds  I  hear 
Are  the  hoarse  rooks  upon  the  walls, 
And  horses  stamping  in  their  stalls ! 

VOL.  VI.  2 


26  The  Golden  Legend 

A  horn  sounds. 

What  ho  !  that  merry,  sudden  blast 
Reminds  me  of  the  days  long  past ! 
And,  as  of  old  resounding,  grate 
The  heavy  hinges  of  the  gate, 
And,  clattering  loud,  with  iron  clank, 
Down  goes  the  sounding  bridge  of  plank, 
As  if  it  were  in  haste  to  greet 
The  pressure  of  a  traveller's  feet ! 

Enter  WALTER  the  Minnesinger. 

WALTER. 

How  now,  my  friend  !     This  looks  quite  lonely ! 
No  banner  flying  from  the  walls, 
No  pages  and  no  seneschals, 
No  warders,  and  one  porter  only  ! 
Is  it  you,  Hubert  ? 

HUBERT. 

Ah  !  Master  Walter ! 

WALTER. 

Alas  !  how  forms  and  faces  alter ! 

I  did  not  know  you.     You  look  older ! 

Your  hair  has  grown  much  grayer  and  thinner, 

And  you  stoop  a  little  in  the  shoulder  ! 

HUBERT. 

Alack  !     I  am  a  poor  old  sinner, 
And,  like  these  towers,  begin  to  moulder ; 
And  you  have  been  absent  many  a  year ! 


How  is  the  Prince  ? 


27 

WALTER. 
HUBERT. 


He  is  not  here ; 
He  has  been  ill :  and  now  has  fled. 

WALTER. 

Speak  it  out  frankly  :  say  he's  dead ! 
Is  it  not  so  ? 

HUBERT. 

No ;  if  you  please, 
A  strange,  mysterious  disease 
Fell  on  him  with  a  sudden  blight. 
Whole  hours  together  he  would  stand 
Upon  the  terrace,  in  a  dream, 
Resting  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
Best  pleased  when  he  was  most  alone, 
Like  Saint  John  Nepomuck  in  stone, 
Looking  down  into  a  stream. 
In  the  Round  Tower,  night  after  night, 
He  sat,  and  bleared  his  eyes  with  books ; 
Until  one  morning  we  found  him  there 
Stretched  on  the  floor,  as  if  in  a  swoon 
He  had  fallen  from  his  chair. 
We  hardly  recognized  his  sweet  looks ! 

WALTER. 

Poor  Prince  ! 


28  The  Golden  Legend 

HUBERT. 

I  think  he  might  have  mended  ; 
And  he  did  mend  ;  but  very  soon 
The  priests  came  nocking  in,  like  rooks, 
With  all  their  crosiers  and  their  crooks, 
And  so  at  last  the  matter  ended. 

WALTER. 
How  did  it  end? 

HUBERT. 

Why,  in  Saint  Rochus 
They  made  him  stand,  and  wait  his  doom ; 
And,  as  if  he  were  condemned  to  the  tomb, 
Began  to  mutter  their  hocus-pocus. 
First,  the  Mass  for  the  Dead  they  chanted, 
Then  three  times  laid  upon  his  head 
A  shovelful  of  churchyard  clay, 
Saying  to  him,  as  he  stood  undaunted, 
"  This  is  a  sign  that  thou  art  dead, 
So  in  thy  heart  be  penitent !  " 
And  forth  from  the  chapel  door  he  went 
Into  disgrace  and  banishment, 
Clothed  in  a  cloak  of  hodden  gray, 
And  bearing  a  wallet,  and  a  bell, 
Whose  sound  should  be  a  perpetual  knell 
To  keep  all  travellers  away. 

WALTER. 

O,  horrible  fate  !     Outcast,  rejected, 
As  one  with  pestilence  infected  ! 


The  Golden  Legend  29 

HUBERT. 

Then  was  the  family  tomb  unsealed, 
And  broken  helmet,  sword  and  shield, 
Buried  together,  in  common  wreck, 
As  is  the  custom,  when  the  last 
Of  any  princely  house  has  passed, 
And  thrice,  as  with  a  trumpet-blast, 
A  herald  shouted  down  the  stair 
The  words  of  warning  and  despair,  — 
"  O  Hoheneck !     O  Hoheneck !  " 

WALTER. 

Still  in  my  soul  that  cry  goes  on,  — 

Forever  gone  !  forever  gone  ! 

Ah,  what  a  cruel  sense  of  loss, 

Like  a  black  shadow,  would  fall  across 

The  hearts  of  all,  if  he  should  die ! 

His  gracious  presence  upon  earth 

Was  as  a  fire  upon  a  hearth  ; 

As  pleasant  songs,  at  morning  sung, 

The  words  that  dropped  from  his  sweet  tongue 

Strengthened  our  hearts  ;  or,  heard  at  night, 

Made  all  our  slumbers  soft  and  light. 

Where  is  he  ? 

HUBERT. 

In  the  Odenwald. 
Some  of  his  tenants,  unappalled 
By  fear  of  death,  or  priestly  word,  — 
A  holy  family,  that  make 


-  "- 


. 


-~  ..    •   . 


..   _ 


- 


II. 

A   FARM   IN   THE   ODENWALD 

A  garden;  morning ;    PRINCE  HENRY  seated,  with  a  book. 
ELSIE,  at  a  distance,  gathering  flowers. 

PRINCE   HENRY,   reading. 

ONE  morning,  all  alone, 
Out  of  his  convent  of  gray  stone, 
Into  the  forest  older,  darker,  grayer, 
His  lips  moving  as  if  in  prayer, 
His  head  sunken  upon  his  breast 
As  in  a  dream  of  rest, 
Walked  the  Monk  Felix.     All  about 
The  broad,  sweet  sunshine  lay  without, 
Filling  the  summer  air ; 
And  within  the  woodlands  as  he  trod, 
The  dusk  was  like  the  Truce  of  God 
With  worldly  woe  and  care ; 
Under  him  lay  the  golden  moss ; 
And  above  him  the  boughs  of  hoary  trees 
Waved,  and  made  the  sign  of  the  cross, 
And  whispered  their  Benedicites  ; 
And  from  the  ground 
Rose  an  odor  sweet  and  fragrant 


The  Golden  Legend  33 

Of  the  wild-flowers  and  the  vagrant 

Vines  that  wandered, 

Seeking  the  sunshine,  round  and  round. 

These  he  heeded  not,  but  pondered 

On  the  volume  in  his  hand, 

A  volume  of  Saint  Augustine, 

Wherein  he  read  of  the  unseen 

Splendors  of  God's  great  town 

In  the  unknown  land, 

And,  with  his  eyes  cast  down 

In  humility,  he  said  : 

"  I  believe,  O  God, 

What  herein  I  have  read, 

But  alas !  I  do  not  understand ! " 

And  lo  !  he  heard 

The  sudden  singing  of  a  bird, 

A  snow-white  bird,  that  from  a  cloud 

Dropped  down, 

And  among  the  branches  brown 

Sat  singing 

So  sweet,  and  clear,  and  loud, 

It  seemed  a  thousand  harp-strings  ringing. 

And  the  Monk  Felix  closed  his  book, 

And  long,  long, 

With  rapturous  look, 

He  listened  to  the  song, 

And  hardly  breathed  or  stirred, 

VOL.  VI.  2*  C 


34  The  Golden  Legmd 

Until  he  saw,  as  in  a  vision, 

The  land  Elysian, 

And  in  the  heavenly  city  heard 

Angelic  feet 

Fall  on  the  golden  flagging  of  the  street. 

And  he  would  fain 

Have  caught  the  wondrous  bird, 

But  strove  in  vain  ; 

For  it  flew  away,  away, 

Far  over  hill  and  dell, 

And  instead  of  its  sweet  singing 

He  heard  the  convent  bell 

Suddenly  in  the  silence  ringing 

For  the  service  of  noonday. 

And  he  retraced 

His  pathway  homeward  sadly  and  in  haste. 

In  the  convent  there  was  a  change ! 
He  looked  for  each  well-known  face, 
But  the  faces  were  new  and  strange ; 
New  figures  sat  in  the  oaken  stalls, 
New  voices  chanted  in  the  choir  ; 
Yet  the  place  was  the  same  place, 
The  same  dusky  walls 
Of  cold,  gray  stone, 
The  same  cloisters  and  belfry  and  spire. 

A  stranger  and  alone 
Among  that  brotherhood 


The  Goldm  Legend  35 

The  Monk  Felix  stood. 

"  Forty  years,"  said  a  Friar, 

"  Have  I  been  Prior 

Of  this  convent  in  the  wood, 

But  for  that  space 

Never  have  I  beheld  thy  face  !  " 

The  heart  of  the  Monk  Felix  fell : 

And  he  answered,  with  submissive  tone, 

"  This  morning,  after  the  hour  of  Prime, 

I  left  my  cell, 

And  wandered  forth  alone, 

Listening  all  the  time 

To  the  melodious  singing 

Of  a  beautiful  white  bird, 

Until  I  heard 

The  bells  of  the  convent  ringing 

Noon  from  their  noisy  towers. 

It  was  as  if  I  dreamed  ; 

For  what  to  me  had  seemed 

Moments  only,  had  been  hours !  " 

"  Years !  "  said  a  voice  close  by. 
It  was  an  aged  monk  who  spoke, 
From  a  bench  of  oak 
Fastened  against  the  wall ;  — 
He  was  the  oldest  monk  of  all. 
For  a  whole  century 
Had  he  been  there, 


36  The  Golden  Legend 

Serving  God  in  prayer, 

The  meekest  and  humblest  of  his  creatures. 

He  remembered  well  the  features 

Of  Felix,  and  he  said, 

Speaking  distinct  and  slow  : 

"  One  hundred  years  ago, 

When  I  was  a  novice  in  this  place, 

There  was  here  a  monk,  full  of  God's  grace, 

Who  bore  the  name 

Of  Felix,  and  this  man  must  be  the  same." 

And  straightway 

They  brought  forth  to  the  light  of  day 

A  volume  old  and  brown, 

A  huge  tome,  bound 

In  brass  and  wild-boar's  hide, 

Wherein  were  written  down 

The  names  of  all  who  had  died 

In  the  convent,  since  it  was  edified. 

And  there  they  found, 

Just  as  the  old  monk  said, 

That  on  a  certain  day  and  date, 

One  hundred  years  before, 

Had  gone  forth  from  the  convent  gate 

The  Monk  Felix,  and  never  more 

Had  entered  that  sacred  door. 

He  had  been  counted  among  the  dead  ! 

And  they  knew,  at  last, 

That,  such  had  been  the  power 


The  Golden  Legend  37 


Of  that  celestial  and  immortal  song, 
A  hundred  years  had  passed, 
And  had  not  seemed  so  long 
As  a  single  hour ! 

ELSIE  comes  in  with  flowers •. 
ELSIE. 

Here  are  flowers  for  you, 
But  they  are  not  all  for  you. 
Some  of  them  are  for  the  Virgin 
And  for  Saint  Cecilia. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

As  thou  standest  there, 
Thou  seemest  to  me  like  the  angel 
That  brought  the  immortal  roses 
To  Saint  Cecilia's  bridal  chamber. 

ELSIE. 
But  these  will  fade. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

Themselves  will  fade, 

But  not  their  memory, 

And  memory  has  the  power 

To  re-create  them  from  the  dust. 

They  remind  me,  too, 

Of  martyred  Dorothea, 

Who  from  celestial  gardens  sent 

Flowers  as  her  witnesses 

To  him  who  scoffed  and  doubted. 


38  The  Golden  Legend 

ELSIE. 

Do  you  know  the  story 

Of  Christ  and  the  Sultan's  daughter  ? 

That  is  the  prettiest  legend  of  them  all. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

Then  tell  it  to  me. 

But  first  come  hither. 

Lay  the  flowers  down  beside  me, 

And  put  both  thy  hands  in  mine. 

Now  tell  me  the  story. 

ELSIE. 

Early  in  the  morning 
The  Sultan's  daughter 
Walked  in  her  father's  garden, 
Gathering  the  bright  flowers, 
All  full  of  dew. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

Just  as  thou  hast  been  doing 
This  morning,  dearest  Elsie. 

ELSIE. 

And  as  she  gathered  them, 
She  wondered  more  and  more 
Who  was  the  Master  of  the  Flowers, 
And  made  them  grow 
Out  of  the  cold,  dark  earth. 
"  In  my  heart,"  she  said, 
"  I  love  him  ;  and  for  him 


The  Golden  Legend  39 


Would  leave  my  father's  palace, 
To  labor  in  his  garden." 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

Dear,  innocent  child ! 

How  sweetly  thou  recallest 

The  long-forgotten  legend, 

That  in  my  early  childhood 

My  mother  told  me  ! 

Upon  my  brain 

It  reappears  once  more, 

As  a  birth-mark  on  the  forehead 

When  a  hand  suddenly 

Is  laid  upon  it,  and  removed ! 

ELSIE. 

And  at  midnight, 
As  she  lay  upon  her  bed, 
She  heard  a  voice 
Call  to  her  from  the  garden, 
And,  looking  forth  from  her  window, 
She  saw  a  beautiful  youth 
Standing  among  the  flowers. 
It  was  the  Lord  Jesus ; 
And  she  went  down  to  him, 
And  opened  the  door  for  him  ; 
And  he  said  to  her,  "  O  maiden  ! 
Thou  hast  thought  of  me  with  love, 
And  for  thy  sake 
Out  of  my  Father's  kingdom 


4O  The  Golden  Legend 

Have  I  come  hither  : 

I  am  the  Master  of  the  Flowers. 

My  garden  is  in  Paradise, 

And  if  thou  wilt  go  with  me, 

Thy  bridal  garland 

Shall  be  of  bright  red  flowers." 

And  then  he  took  from  his  finger 

A  golden  ring, 

And  asked  the  Sultan's  daughter 

If  she  would  be  his  bride. 

And  when  she  answered  him  with  love, 

His  wounds  began  to  bleed, 

And  she  said  to  him, 

"  O  Love  !  how  red  thy  heart  is, 

And  thy  hands  are  full  of  roses." 

"  For  thy  sake,"  answered  he, 

"  For  thy  sake  is  my  heart  so  red, 

For  thee  I  bring  these  roses  ; 

I  gathered  them  at  the  cross 

Whereon  I  died  for  thee  ! 

Come,  for  my  Father  calls. 

Thou  art  my  elected  bride  ! " 

And  the  Sultan's  daughter 

Followed  him  to  his  Father's  garden. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

Wouldst  thou  have  done  so,  Elsie  ? 

ELSIE. 

Yes,  very  gladly. 


The  Golden  Legend  41 


PRINCE    HENRY. 

Then  the  Celestial  Bridegroom 

Will  come  for  thee  also. 

Upon  thy  forehead  he  will  place, 

Not  his  crown  of  thorns, 

But  a  crown  of  roses. 

In  thy  bridal  chamber, 

Like  Saint  Cecilia, 

Thou  shalt  hear  sweet  music, 

And  breathe  the  fragrance 

Of  flowers  immortal ! 

Go  now  and  place  these  flowers 

Before  her  picture. 


A  ROOM   IN   THE   FARM-HOUSE 

Tivilight.     URSULA  spinning.     GOTTLIEB  asleep  in  his  chair. 
URSULA. 

DARKER  and  darker !     Hardly  a  glimmer 
Of  light  comes  in  at  the  window-pane  ; 
Or  is  it  my  eyes  are  growing  dimmer  ? 
I  cannot  disentangle  this  skein, 
Nor  wind  it  rightly  upon  the  reel. 
Elsie ! 

GOTTLIEB,  starting. 

The  stopping  of  thy  wheel 
Has  wakened  me  out  of  a  pleasant  dream. 


42  The  Golden  Legend 

I  thought  I  was  sitting  beside  a  stream, 
And  heard  the  grinding  of  a  mill, 
When  suddenly  the  wheels  stood  still, 
And  a  voice  cried  "  Elsie  "  in  my  ear  ! 
It  startled  me,  it  seemed  so  near. 

URSULA. 

I  was  calling  her  :  I  want  a  light. 

I  cannot  see  to  spin  my  flax. 

Bring  the  lamp,  Elsie.     Dost  thou  hear  ? 

ELSIE,   within. 

In  a  moment ! 

GOTTLIEB. 

Where  are  Bertha  and  Max  ? 

URSULA. 

They  are  sitting  with  Elsie  at  the  door. 
She  is  telling  them  stories  of  the  wood, 
And  the  Wolf,  and  little  Red  Ridinghood. 

GOTTLIEB. 

And  where  is  the  Prince  ? 

URSULA. 

In  his  room  overhead  ; 
I  heard  him  walking  across  the  floor, 
As  he  always  does,  with  a  heavy  tread. 

ELSIE  comes  in  with  a  lamp.  MAX  and  BERTHA  follow  her; 
and  they  all  sing  the  Evening  Song  on  the  lighting  of  the 
lamps. 


The  Golden  Legend  43 

EVENING   SONG. 

O  gladsome  light 
Of  the  Father  Immortal, 
And  of  the  celestial 
Sacred  and  blessed 
Jesus,  our  Saviour ! 

Now  to  the  sunset 
Again  hast  thou  brought  us ; 
And,  seeing  the  evening 
Twilight,  we  bless  thee, 
Praise  thee,  adore  thee  ! 

Father  omnipotent ! 
Son,  the  Life-giver ! 
Spirit,  the  Comforter ! 
Worthy  at  all  times 
Of  worship  and  wonder ! 

PRINCE  HENRY,  at  the  door. 
Amen! 

URSULA. 

Who  was  it  said  Amen  ? 

ELSIE. 

It  was  the  Prince :  he  stood  at  the  door, 
And  listened  a  moment,  as  we  chanted 
The  evening  song.     He  is  gone  again. 
I  have  often  seen  him  there  before. 


V"  -""1.-. 

Poor  7--:r 

GOTTLiaL 

I  thought  tie  house  was  haunted 
ItoarltiBO^afas!  and  vetasMfld 

_-_      IT-      .          *    --    -    _  -  ~-    -  i  "*      _. 

MVC. 

I  love  him  because  he  is  so  good, 

:  makes  me  !>»rfi  fine  bows  and  arrows, 
To  sfaooc  at  the  robbins  and  die  sparrows, 
And  the  red  squirrels  in  the  wood! 

BDTTHA. 
I  love  fainr  too  I 

GOTTLIEB. 

Ak,yes!  we  all 
from  the  botconi  of  our  hearts  ; 
a  die  faoB,  t&e  house,  and  t^  orange, 

and  die  carts, 
a  in  die  stall, 
die  forest  range! 
We  have  nothing  to  give  hrm  but  our  love  I 


Didfc, 


GOTTLIEB. 

BEo^  oat  Ac  stork  ;  by  God  in  heaven, 

As  a  Mgj^Tug^  die  dear  white  stork  was  given, 


Tke  Goldat  Legend  45 

Bat  the  Prince  has  grren  tts  aS  the  rest. 
God  biess  !••,  aatd  luke  koB  wefl  again. 

IL:  IL 

COOJQ  4>fE  SOBBeu&BC  JOT  IBS  S3HGCL 

to  core  his  sorrow  and  foil! 


That  no  one  can  ;  •after  Ifca*  aar 

Nor  any  one  cist. 

ELSOL 

.-.:  -  -  _ 


Yes  ;  if  the  dear  God  dots  aol 
Pity  I^IGB  ban,  BI  IK  tfistress, 

And  work  a 


Or 

-  \  ------     ':.--  :~~  n:  --i 

Oaersherfifcfcrtfextofherlorf, 
And  is  milling  to  die  in  h 


I  ml! 

•Mm 

Prithee,  tboBfoofishckad,  be  stiH! 

3t  say  vfeal  thoB  dost  Bot  • 


:  ~ _' 


46  The  Golden  Legend 

MAX. 

O  father  !  this  morning, 
Down  by  the  mill,  in  the  ravine, 
Hans  killed  a  wolf,  the  very  same 
That  in  the  night  to  the  sheepfold  came, 
And  ate  up  my  lamb,  that  was  left  outside. 

GOTTLIEB. 

I  am  glad  he  is  dead.     It  will  be  a  warning 
To  the  wolves  in  the  forest,  far  and  wide. 

MAX. 
And  I  am  going  to  have  his  hide  ! 

BERTHA. 

I  wonder  if  this  is  the  wolf  that  ate 
Little  Red  Ridinghood ! 

URSULA. 

O,  no! 

That  wolf  was  killed  a  long  while  ago. 
Come,  children,  it  is  growing  late. 

MAX. 

Ah,  how  I  wish  I  were  a  man, 
As  stout  as  Hans  is,  and  as  strong ! 
I  would  do  nothing  else,  the  whole  day  long, 
But  just  kill  wolves. 

GOTTLIEB. 

Then  go  to  bed, 
And  grow  as  fast  as  a  little  boy  can. 


The  Golden  Legend 

Bertha  is  half  asleep  already. 
See  how  she  nods  her  heavy  head, 
And  her  sleepy  feet  are  so  unsteady 
She  will  hardly  be  able  to  creep  up  stairs. 

URSULA. 

Good  night,  my  children.     Here 's  the  light. 
And  do  not  forget  to  say  your  prayers 
Before  you  sleep. 

GOTTLIEB. 

Good  night ! 

MAX  and  BERTHA. 

Good  night ! 
They  go  out  with  ELSIE. 

URSULA,  spinning. 

She  is  a  strange  and  wayward  child, 

That  Elsie  of  ours.     She  looks  so  old, 

And  thoughts  and  fancies  weird  and  wild 

Seem  of  late  to  have  taken  hold 

Of  her  heart,  that  was  once  so  docile  and  mild  ! 

GOTTLIEB. 

She  is  like  all  girls. 

URSULA. 

Ah  no,  forsooth ! 
Unlike  all  I  have  ever  seen. 
For  she  has  visions  and  strange  dreams, 
And  in  all  her  words  and  ways,  she  seems 
Much  older  than  she  is  in  truth. 


48  The  Golden  Legend 

Who  would  think  her  but  fifteen  ? 
And  there  has  been  of  late  such  a  change  ! 
My  heart  is  heavy  with  fear  and  doubt 
That  she  may  not  live  till  the  year  is  out. 
She  is  so  strange,  —  so  strange,  —  so  strange ! 

GOTTLIEB. 

I  am  not  troubled  with  any  such  fear ; 
She  will  live  and  thrive  for  many  a  year. 


ELSIE'S   CHAMBER 

Night.     ELSIE  praying. 
ELSIE. 

MY  Redeemer  and  my  Lord, 
I  beseech  thee,  I  entreat  thee, 
Guide  me  in  each  act  and  word, 
That  hereafter  I  may  meet  thee, 
Watching,  waiting,  hoping,  yearning, 
With  my  lamp  well  trimmed  and  burning ! 

Interceding 

With  these  bleeding 

Wounds  upon  thy  hands  and  side, 

For  all  who  have  lived  and  erred 

Thou  hast  suffered,  thou  hast  died, 


The  Golden  Legend  49 

Scourged,  and  mocked,  and  crucified, 
And  in  the  grave  hast  thou  been  buried ! 

If  my  feeble  prayer  can  reach  thee, 

O  my  Saviour,  I  beseech  thee, 

Even  as  thou  hast  died  for  me, 

More  sincerely 

Let  me  follow  where  thou  leadest, 

Let  me,  bleeding  as  thou  bleedest, 

Die,  if  dying  I  may  give 

Life  to  one  who  asks  to  live, 

And  more  nearly, 

Dying  thus,  resemble  thee ! 


THE  CHAMBER  OF   GOTTLIEB   AND   URSULA 

Midnight.     ELSIE  standing  by  their  bedside,  weeping. 
GOTTLIEB. 

THE  wind  is  roaring ;  the  rushing  rain 
Is  loud  upon  roof  and  window-pane, 
As  if  the  Wild  Huntsman  of  Rodenstein, 
Boding  evil  to  me  and  mine, 
Were  abroad  to-night  with  his  ghostly  train ! 
In  the  brief  lulls  of  the  tempest  wild, 
The  dogs  howl  in  the  yard  ;  and  hark  ! 
Some  one  is  sobbing  in  the  dark, 
Here  in  the  chamber ! 

VOL.  vr.  3  D 


5O  The  Golden  Legend 

ELSIE. 
It  is  I. 

URSULA. 

Elsie  !  what  ails  thee,  my  poor  child  ? 

ELSIE. 

I  am  disturbed  and  much  distressed, 
In  thinking  our  dear  Prince  must  die ; 
I  cannot  close  mine  eyes,  nor  rest. 

GOTTLIEB. 

What  wouldst  thou  ?     In  the  Power  Divine 
His  healing  lies,  not  in  our  own  ; 
It  is  in  the  hand  of  God  alone. 

ELSIE. 

Nay,  he  has  put  it  into  mine, 
And  into  my  heart ! 

GOTTLIEB. 

Thy  words  are  wild  ! 

URSULA. 

What  dost  thou  mean  ?  my  child  !  my  child  ! 

ELSIE. 

That  for  our  dear  Prince  Henry's  sake 
I  will  myself  the  offering  make, 
And  give  my  life  to  purchase  his. 

URSULA. 

Am  I  still  dreaming,  or  awake  ? 
Thou  speakest  carelessly  of  death, 
And  yet  thou  knowest  not  what  it  is. 


The  Golden  Legend  51 

ELSIE. 

'T  is  the  cessation  of  our  breath. 
Silent  and  motionless  we  lie ; 
And  no  one  knoweth  more  than  this. 
I  saw  our  little  Gertrude  die ; 
She  left  off  breathing,  and  no  more 
I  smoothed  the  pillow  beneath  her  head. 
She  was  more  beautiful  than  before. 
Like  violets  faded  were  her  eyes  ; 
By  this  we  knew  that  she  was  dead. 
Through  the  open  window  looked  the  skies 
Into  the  chamber  where  she  lay, 
And  the  wind  was  like  the  sound  of  wings, 
As  if  angels  came  to  bear  her  away. 
Ah !  when  I  saw  and  felt  these  things, 
I  found  it  difficult  to  stay ; 
I  longed  to  die,  as  she  had  died, 
And  go  forth  with  her,  side  by  side. 
The  Saints  are  dead,  the  Martyrs  dead, 
And  Mary,  and  our  Lord ;  and  I 
Would  follow  in  humility 
The  way  by  them  illumined  ! 

URSULA. 

My  child  !  my  child !  thou  must  not  die  ! 

ELSIE. 

Why  should  I  live  ?     Do  I  not  know 
The  life  of  woman  is  full  of  woe  ? 
Toiling  on  and  on  and  on, 


52  The  Golden  Legend 

With  breaking  heart,  and  tearful  eyes, 
And  silent  lips,  and  in  the  soul 
The  secret  longings  that  arise, 
Which  this  world  never  satisfies  ! 
Some  more,  some  less,  but  of  the  whole 
Not  one  quite  happy,  no,  not  one ! 

URSULA. 
It  is  the  malediction  of  Eve ! 

ELSIE. 

In  place  of  it,  let  me  receive 
The  benediction  of  Mary,  then. 

GOTTLIEB. 

Ah,  woe  is  me !     Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
Most  wretched  am  I  among  men  ! 

URSULA. 

Alas !  that  I  should  live  to  see 
Thy  death,  beloved,  and  to  stand 
Above  thy  grave  !     Ah,  woe  the  day ! 

ELSIE. 

Thou  wilt  not  see  it.     I  shall  lie 

Beneath  the  flowers  of  another  land, 

For  at  Salerno,  far  away 

Over  the  mountains,  over  the  sea, 

It  is  appointed  me  to  die  ! 

And  it  will  seem  no  more  to  thee 


53 


Than  if  at  the  village  on  market-day 
I  should  a  little  longer  stay 
Than  I  am  wont. 

URSULA. 

Even  as  thou  sayest ! 

And  how  my  heart  beats,  when  thou  stayest ! 
I  cannot  rest  until  my  sight 
Is  satisfied  with  seeing  thee. 
What,  then,  if  thou  wert  dead  ? 

GOTTLIEB. 

Ah  me! 

Of  our  old  eyes  thou  art  the  light ! 
The  joy  of  our  old  hearts  art  thou  ! 
And  wilt  thou  die  ? 

URSULA. 

Not  now !  not  now ! 

ELSIE. 

Christ  died  for  me,  and  shall  not  I 
Be  willing  for  my  Prince  to  die  ? 
You  both  are  silent ;  you  cannot  speak. 
This  said  I  at  our  Saviour's  feast 
After  confession,  to  the  priest, 
And  even  he  made  no  reply. 
Does  he  not  warn  us  all  to  seek 
The  happier,  better  land  on  high, 
Where  flowers  immortal  never  wither ; 
And  could  he  forbid  me  to  go  thither  ? 


54  The  Goldm  Legettd 

GOTTLIEB. 

In  God's  own  time,  my  heart's  delight ! 
When  he  shall  call  thee,  not  before  ! 

ELSIE. 

I  heard  him  call.     When  Christ  ascended 

Triumphantly,  from  star  to  star, 

He  left  the  gates  of  heaven  ajar. 

I  had  a  vision  in  the  night, 

And  saw  him  standing  at  the  door 

Of  his  Father's  mansion,  vast  and  splendid, 

And  beckoning  to  me  from  afar. 

I  cannot  stay ! 

GOTTLIEB. 

She  speaks  almost 
As  if  it  were  the  Holy  Ghost 
Spake  through  her  lips,  and  in  her  stead ! 
What  if  this  were  of  God  ? 

URSULA. 

Ah,  then 
Gainsay  it  dare  we  not. 

GOTTLIEB. 

Amen! 

Elsie !  the  words  that  thou  hast  said 
Are  strange  and  new  for  us  to  hear, 
And  fill  our  hearts  with  doubt  and  fear. 
Whether  it  be  a  dark  temptation 
Of  the  Evil  One,  or  God's  inspiration, 


The  Golden  Legend 

We  in  our  blindness  cannot  say. 
We  must  think  upon  it,  and  pray ; 
For  evil  and  good  it  both  resembles. 
If  it  be  of  God,  his  will  be  done ! 
May  he  guard  us  from  the  Evil  One  1 
How  hot  thy  hand  is !  how  it  trembles ! 
Go  to  thy  bed,  and  try  to  sleep. 

URSULA. 
Kiss  me.     Good  night ;  and  do  not  weep ! 

ELSIE  goes  out. 

Ah,  what  an  awful  thing  is  this  ! 
I  almost  shuddered  at  her  kiss, 
As  if  a  ghost  had  touched  my  cheek, 
I  am  so  childish  and  so  weak ! 
As  soon  as  I  see  the  earliest  gray 
Of  morning  glimmer  in  the  east, 
I  will  go  over  to  the  priest, 
And  hear  what  the  good  man  has  to  say ! 


A   VILLAGE   CHURCH 

A  woman  kneeling  at  the  confessional. 
THE   PARISH   PRIEST,  from  within. 

Go,  sin  no  more  !     Thy  penance  o'er, 
A  new  and  better  life  begin ! 
God  maketh  thee  forever  free 


56  The  Golden  Legend 

From  the  dominion  of  thy  sin  ! 
Go,  sin  no  more  !     He  will  restore 
The  peace  that  filled  thy  heart  before. 
And  pardon  thine  iniquity  ! 

The  woman  goes  out.      The  Priest  comes  forth,    and  walks 
slowly  up  and  dmvn  the  chtirch. 

0  blessed  Lord !  how  much  I  need 
Thy  light  to  guide  me  on  my  way ! 
So  many  hands,  that,  without  heed, 

Still  touch  thy  wounds,  and  make  them  bleed  ! 
So  many  feet,  that,  day  by  day, 
Still  wander  from  thy  fold  astray  ! 
Unless  thou  fill  me  with  thy  light, 

1  cannot  lead  thy  flock  aright ; 
Nor,  without  thy  support,  can  bear 
The  burden  of  so  great  a  care, 
But  am  myself  a  castaway  ! 

A  pause. 

The  day  is  drawing  to  its  close ; 

And  what  good  deeds,  since  first  it  rose, 

Have  I  presented,  Lord,  to  thee, 

As  offerings  of  my  ministry  ? 

What  wrong  repressed,  what  right  maintained, 

What  struggle  passed,  what  victory  gained, 

What  good  attempted  and  attained  ? 

Feeble,  at  best,  is  my  endeavor ! 

I  see,  but  cannot  reach,  the  height 

That  lies  forever  in  the  light, 


The  Golden  Legend  57 

And  yet  forever  and  forever, 
When  seeming  just  within  my  grasp, 
I  feel  my  feeble  hands  unclasp, 
And  sink  discouraged  into  night ! 
For  thine  own  purpose,  thou  hast  sent 
The  strife  and  the  discouragement ! 

A  pause. 

Why  stayest  thou,  Prince  of  Hoheneck  ? 
Why  keep  me  pacing  to  and  fro 
Amid  these  aisles  of  sacred  gloom, 
Counting  my  footsteps  as  I  go, 
And  marking  with  each  step  a  tomb  ? 
Why  should  the  world  for  thee  make  room, 
And  wait  thy  leisure  and  thy  beck  ? 
Thou  comest  in  the  hope  to  hear 
Some  word  of  comfort  and  of  cheer. 
What  can  I  say  ?     I  cannot  give 
The  counsel  to  do  this  arid  live ; 
But  rather,  firmly  to  deny 
The  tempter,  though  his  power  be  strong, 
And,  inaccessible  to  wrong, 
Still  like  a  martyr  live  and  die  ! 

A  pause. 

The  evening  air  grows  dusk  and  brown ; 
I  must  go  forth  into  the  town, 
To  visit  beds  of  pain  and  death, 
Of  restless  limbs,  and  quivering  breath, 
And  sorrowing  hearts,  and  patient  eyes 
That  see,  through  tears,  the  sun  go  down, 


58  T/ie  Golden  Legend 

But  never  more  shall  see  it  rise. 
The  poor  in  body  and  estate, 
The  sick  and  the  disconsolate, 
Must  not  on  man's  convenience  wait 

Goes  out. 
Enter  LUCIFER,  as  a  Priest. 

LUCIFER,  vrith  a  genuflexion,  mocking. 
This  is  the  Black  Pater-noster. 
God  was  my  foster, 
He  fostered  me 

Under  the  book  of  the  Palm-tree ! 
St  Michael  was  my  dame. 
He  was  born  at  Bethlehem, 
He  was  made  of  flesh  and  blood. 
God  send  me  my  right  food, 
My  right  food,  and  shelter  too, 
That  I  may  to  yon  kirk  go, 
To  read  upon  yon  sweet  book 
Which  the  mighty  God  of  heaven  shook. 
Open,  open,  hell's  gates  ! 
Shut,  shut,  heaven's  gates  ! 
All  the  devils  in  the  ah* 
The  stronger  be,  that  hear  the  Black  Prayer ! 

Looking  round  the  church. 

What  a  darksome  and  dismal  place  I 

I  wonder  that  any  man  has  the  face 

To  call  such  a  hole  the  House  of  the  Lord, 

And  the  Gate  of  Heaven,  —  yet  such  is  the  word. 


The  Golden  Legend  59 

Ceiling,  and  walls,  and  windows  old, 

Covered  with  cobwebs,  blackened  with  mould ; 

Dust  on  the  pulpit,  dust  on  the  stairs, 

Dust  on  the  benches,  and  stalls,  and  chairs  ! 

The  pulpit,  from  which  such  ponderous  sermons 

Have  fallen  down  on  the  brains  of  the  Germans, 

With  about  as  much  real  edification 

As  if  a  great  Bible,  bound  in  lead, 

Had  fallen,  and  struck  them  on  the  head ; 

And  I  ought  to  remember  that  sensation ! 

Here  stands  the  holy-water  stoup ! 

Holy-water  it  may  be  to  many, 

But  to  me,  the  veriest  Liquor  Gehennae ! 

It  smells  like  a  filthy  fast-day  soup ! 

Near  it  stands  the  box  for  the  poor ; 

With  its  iron  padlock,  safe  and  sure. 

I  and  the  priest  of  the  parish  know 

Whither  all  these  charities  go  ; 

Therefore,  to  keep  up  the  institution, 

I  will  add  my  little  contribution  ! 

He  puts  in  money, 

Underneath  this  mouldering  tomb, 

With  statue  of  stone,  and  scutcheon  of  brass, 

Slumbers  a  great  lord  of  the  village. 

All  his  life  was  riot  and  pillage, 

But  at  length,  to  escape  the  threatened  doom 

Of  the  everlasting,  penal  fire, 

He  died  in  the  dress  of  a  mendicant  friar, 

And  bartered  his  wealth  for  a  daily  mass. 


60  The  Golden  Legend 

But  all  that  afterwards  came  to  pass, 
And  whether  he  finds  it  dull  or  pleasant, 
Is  kept  a  secret  for  the  present, 
At  his  own  particular  desire. 

And  here,  in  a  corner  of  the  wall, 

Shadowy,  silent,  apart  from  all, 

With  its  awful  portal  open  wide, 

And  its  latticed  windows  on  either  side, 

And  its  step  well  worn  by  the  bended  knees 

Of  one  or  two  pious  centuries, 

Stands  the  village  confessional ! 

Within  it,  as  an  honored  guest, 

I  will  sit  me  down  awhile  and  rest ! 

Seats  himself  in  the  confessional. 
Here  sits  the  priest ;  and  faint  and  low, 
Like  the  sighing  of  an  evening  breeze, 
Comes  through  these  painted  lattices 
The  ceaseless  sound  of  human  woe  ; 
Here,  while  her  bosom  aches  and  throbs 
With  deep  and  agonizing  sobs, 
That  half  are  passion,  half  contrition, 
The  luckless  daughter  of  perdition 
Slowly  confesses  her  secret  shame  ! 
The  time,  the  place,  the  lover's  name ! 
Here  the  grim  murderer,  with  a  groan, 
From  his  bruised  conscience  rolls  the  stone, 
Thinking  that  thus  he  can  atone 
For  ravages  of  sword  and  flame  ! 


The  Golden  Legend  61 

Indeed,  I  marvel,  and  marvel  greatly, 
How  a  priest  can  sit  here  so  sedately, 
Reading,  the  whole  year  out  and  in, 
Naught  but  the  catalogue  of  sin, 
And  still  keep  any  faith  whatever 
In  human  virtue  !     Never !  never ! 

I  cannot  repeat  a  thousandth  part 

Of  the  horrors  and  crimes  and  sins  and  woes 

That  arise,  when  with  palpitating  throes 

The  graveyard  in  the  human  heart 

Gives  up  its  dead,  at  the  voice  of  the  priest, 

As  if  he  were  an  archangel,  at  least. 

It  makes  a  peculiar  atmosphere, 

This  odor  of  earthly  passions  and  crimes, 

Such  as  I  like  to  breathe,  at  times, 

And  such  as  often  brings  me  here 

In  the  hottest  and  most  pestilential  season. 

To-day,  I  come  for  another  reason ; 

To  foster  and  ripen  an  evil  thought 

In  a  heart  that  is  almost  to  madness  wrought, 

And  to  make  a  murderer  out  of  a  prince, 

A  sleight  of  hand  I  learned  long  since ! 

He  comes.     In  the  twilight  he  will  not  see 

The  difference  between  his  priest  and  me ! 

In  the  same  net  was  the  mother  caught ! 

PRINCE   HENRY,  entering  and  kneeling  at  the  confessional. 
Remorseful,  penitent,  and  lowly, 


62  The  Golden  Legend 

I  come  to  crave,  O  Father  holy, 
Thy  benediction  on  my  head. 

LUCIFER. 

The  benediction  shall  be  said 
After  confession,  not  before  ! 
'T  is  a  God-speed  to  the  parting  guest, 
Who  stands  already  at  the  door, 
Sandalled  with  holiness,  and  dressed 
In  garments  pure  from  earthly  stain. 
Meanwhile,  hast  thou  searched  well  thy  breast  ? 
Does  the  same  madness  fill  thy  brain  ? 
Or  have  thy  passion  and  unrest 
Vanished  forever  from  thy  mind  ? 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

By  the  same  madness  still  made  blind, 
By  the  same  passion  still  possessed, 
I  come  again  to  the  house  of  prayer, 
A  man  afflicted  and  distressed  ! 
As  in  a  cloudy  atmosphere, 
Through  unseen  sluices  of  the  air, 
A  sudden  and  impetuous  wind 
Strikes  the  great  forest  white  with  fear, 
And  every  branch,  and  bough,  and  spray 
Points  all  its  quivering  leaves  one  way, 
And  meadows  of  grass,  and  fields  of  grain, 
And  the  clouds  above,  and  the  slanting  rain, 
And  smoke  from  chimneys  of  the  town, 
Yield  themselves  to  it,  and  bow  down, 


The  Golden  Legend  63 

So  does  this  dreadful  purpose  press 
Onward,  with  irresistible  stress, 
And  all  my  thoughts  and  faculties, 
Struck  level  by  the  strength  of  this, 
From  their  true  inclination  turn, 
And  all  stream  forward  to  Salern  ! 

LUCIFER. 

Alas  !  we  are  but  eddies  of  dust, 
Uplifted  by  the  blast,  and  whirled 
Along  the  highway  of  the  world 
A  moment  only,  then  to  fall 
Back  to  a  common  level  all, 
At  the  subsiding  of  the  gust ! 

PRINCE  HENRY. 

O  holy  Father !  pardon  in  me 

The  oscillation  of  a  mind 

Unsteadfast,  and  that  cannot  find 

Its  centre  of  rest  and  harmony ! 

For  evermore  before  mine  eyes 

This  ghastly  phantom  flits  and  flies, 

And  as  a  madman  through  a  crowd, 

With  frantic  gestures  and  wild  cries, 

It  hurries  onward,  and  aloud 

Repeats  its  awful  prophecies  ! 

Weakness  is  wretchedness  !     To  be  strong 

Is  to  be  happy !     I  am  weak, 

And  cannot  find  the  good  I  seek, 

Because  I  feel  and  fear  the  wrong ! 


64  The  Golden  Legend 

LUCIFER. 

Be  not  alarmed !     The  Church  is  kind, 
And  in  her  mercy  and  her  meekness 
She  meets  half-way  her  children's  weakness, 
Writes  their  transgressions  in  the  dust ! 
Though  in  the  Decalogue  we  find 
The  mandate  written,  "  Thou  shalt  not  kill !  " 
Yet  there  are  cases  when  we  must. 
In  war,  for  instance,  or  from  scathe 
To  guard  and  keep  the  one  true  Faith ! 
We  must  look  at  the  Decalogue  in  the  light 
Of  an  ancient  statute,  that  was  meant 
For  a  mild  and  general  application, 
To  be  understood  with  the  reservation, 
That,  in  certain  instances,  the  Right 
Must  yield  to  the  Expedient ! 
Thou  art  a  Prince.     If  thou  shouldst  die, 
What  hearts  and  hopes  would  prostrate  lie ! 
What  noble  deeds,  what  fair  renown, 
Into  the  grave  with  thee  go  down ! 
What  acts  of  valor  and  courtesy 
Remain  undone,  and  die  with  thee ! 
Thou  art  the  last  of  all  thy  race  ! 
With  thee  a  noble  name  expires,    . 
And  vanishes  from  the  earth's  face 
The  glorious  memory  of  thy  sires  ! 
She  is  a  peasant.     In  her  veins 
Flows  common  and  plebeian  blood  ; 
It  is  such  as  daily  and  hourly  stains 


The  Golden  Legend  65 

The  dust  and  the  turf  of  battle  plains, 
By  vassals  shed,  in  a  crimson  flood, 
Without  reserve,  and  without  reward, 
At  the  slightest  summons  of  their  lord  ! 
But  thine  is  precious  ;  the  fore-appointed 
Blood  of  kings,  of  God's  anointed  ! 
Moreover,  what  has  the  world  in  store 
For  one  like  her,  but  tears  and  toil  ? 
Daughter  of  sorrow,  serf  of  the  soil, 
A  peasant's  child  and  a  peasant's  wife, 
And  her  soul  within  her  sick  and  sore 
With  the  roughness  and  barrenness  of  life ! 
I  marvel  not  at  the  heart's  recoil 
From  a  fate  like  this,  in  one  so  tender, 
Nor  at  its  eagerness  to  surrender 
All  the  wretchedness,  want,  and  woe 
That  await  it  in  this  world  below, 
For  the  unutterable  splendor 
Of  the  world  of  rest  beyond  the  skies. 
So  the  Church  sanctions  the  sacrifice  : 
Therefore  inhale  this  healing  balm, 
And  breathe  this  fresh  life  into  thine  ; 
Accept  the  comfort  and  the  calm 
She  offers,  as  a  gift  divine  ; 
Let  her  fall  down  and  anoint  thy  feet 
With  the  ointment  costly  and  most  sweet 
Of  her  young  blood,  and  thou  shalt  live. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

And  will  the  righteous  Heaven  forgive  ? 

VOL.   VI.  E 


66  The  Golden  Legend 

No  action,  whether  foul  or  fair, 

Is  ever  done,  but  it  leaves  somewhere 

A  record,  written  by  fingers  ghostly, 

As  a  blessing  or  a  curse,  and  mostly 

In  the  greater  weakness  or  greater  strength 

Of  the  acts  which  follow  it,  till  at  length 

The  wrongs  of  ages  are  redressed, 

And  the  justice  of  God  made  manifest ! 

LUCIFER. 

In  ancient  records  it  is  stated 

That,  whenever  an  evil  deed  is  done, 

Another  devil  is  created 

To  scourge  and  torment  the  offending  one ! 

But  evil  is  only  good  perverted, 

And  Lucifer,  the  Bearer  of  Light, 

But  an  angel  fallen  and  deserted, 

Thrust  from  his  Father's  house  with  a  curse 

Into  the  black  and  endless  night. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

If  justice  rules  the  universe, 
From  the  good  actions  of  good  men 
Angels  of  light  should  be  begotten, 
And  thus  the  balance  restored  again. 

LUCIFER. 

Yes ;  if  the  world  were  not  so  rotten, 
And  so  given  over  to  the  Devil ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

But  this  deed,  is  it  good  or  evil  ? 


The  Golden  Legend  67 

Have  I  thine  absolution  free 
To  do  it,  and  without  restriction  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Ay ;  and  from  whatsoever  sin 
Lieth  around  it  and  within, 
From  all  crimes  in  which  it  may  involve  thee, 
I  now  release  thee  and  absolve  thee ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Give  me  thy  holy  benediction. 

LUCIFER,  stretching  forth  his  hand  and  muttering. 
Maledictione  perpetua 
Maledicat  vos 
Pater  eternus  ! 

THE  ANGEL,  with  the  ezolian  harp. 

Take  heed !  take  heed ! 

Noble  art  thou  in  thy  birth, 

By  the  good  and  the  great  of  earth 

Hast  thou  been  taught ! 

Be  noble  in  every  thought 

And  in  every  deed ! 

Let  not  the  illusion  of  thy  senses 

Betray  thee  to  deadly  offences. 

Be  strong !  be  good !  be  pure ! 

The  right  only  shall  endure, 

All  things  else  are  but  false  pretences. 

I  entreat  thee,  I  implore, 

Listen  no  more 


68  The  Golden  Legend 

To  the  suggestions  of  an  evil  spirit, 

That  even  now  is  there, 

Making  the  foul  seem  fair, 

And  selfishness  itself  a  virtue  and  a  merit 


A   ROOM   IN  THE  FARM-HOUSE 

GOTTLIEB. 

IT  is  decided !     For  many  days, 
And  nights  as  many,  we  have  had 
A  nameless  terror  in  our  breast, 
Making  us  timid,  and  afraid 
Of  God,  and  his  mysterious  ways  ! 
We  have  been  sorrowful  and  sad ; 
Much  have  we  suffered,  much  have  prayed 
That  he  would  lead  us  as  is  best, 
And  show  us  what  his  will  required. 
It  is  decided ;  and  we  give 
Our  child,  O  Prince,  that  you  may  live ! 

URSULA. 

It  is  of  God.     He  has  inspired 
This  purpose  in  her ;  and  through  pain, 
Out  of  a  world  of  sin  and  woe, 
He  takes  her  to  himself  again. 
The  mother's  heart  resists  no  longer ; 
With  the  Angel  of  the  Lord  in  vain 
It  wrestled,  for  he  was  the  stronger. 


The  Golden  Legend  69 

GOTTLIEB. 

As  Abraham  offered  long  ago 
His  son  unto  the  Lord,  and  even 
The  Everlasting  Father  in  heaven 
Gave  his,  as  a  lamb  unto  the  slaughter, 
So  do  I  offer  up  my  daughter ! 

URSULA  hides  her  face. 
ELSIE. 

My  life  is  little, 
Only  a  cup  of  water, 
But  pure  and  limpid. 
Take  it,  O  my  Prince ! 
Let  it  refresh  you, 
Let  it  restore  you. 
It  is  given  willingly, 
It  is  given  freely ; 
May  God  bless  the  gift ! 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

And  the  giver ! 

GOTTLIEB. 

Amen ! 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

I  accept  it ! 

GOTTLIEB. 

Where  are  the  children  ? 

URSULA. 
They  are  already  asleep. 

GOTTLIEB. 

What  if  they  were  dead  ? 


7O  The  Golden  Legend 


IN  THE  GARDEN 
ELSIE. 

I  HAVE  one  thing  to  ask  of  you. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

What  is  it  ? 
It  is  already  granted. 

ELSIE. 

Promise  me, 

When  we  are  gone  from  here,  and  on  our  way 
Are  journeying  to  Salerno,  you  will  not, 
By  word  or  deed,  endeavor  to  dissuade  me 
And  turn  me  from  my  purpose  ;  but  remember 
That  as  a  pilgrim  to  the  Holy  City 
Walks  unmolested,  and  with  thoughts  of  pardon 
Occupied  wholly,  so  would  I  approach 
The  gates  of  Heaven,  in  this  great  jubilee, 
With  my  petition,  putting  off  from  me 
All  thoughts  of  earth,  as  shoes  from  off  my  feet. 
Promise  me  this. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Thy  words  fall  from  thy  lips 
Like  roses  from  the  lips  of  Angelo  :  and  angels 
Might  stoop  to  pick  them  up  ! 

ELSIE. 

Will  you  not  promise  ? 


The  Golden  Legend  71 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

If  ever  we  depart  upon  this  journey, 
So  long  to  one  or  both  of  us,  I  promise. 

ELSIE. 

Shall  we  not  go,  then  ?     Have  you  lifted  me 
Into  the  air,  only  to  hurl  me  back 
Wounded  upon  the  ground  ?  and  offered  me 
The  waters  of  eternal  life,  to  bid  me 
Drink  the  polluted  puddles  of  this  world  ? 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

O  Elsie  !  what  a  lesson  thou  dost  teach  me ! 

The  life  which  is,  and  that  which  is  to  come, 

Suspended  hang  in  such  nice  equipoise 

A  breath  disturbs  the  balance ;  and  that  scale 

In  which  we  throw  our  hearts  preponderates, 

And  the  other,  like  an  empty  one,  flies  up, 

And  is  accounted  vanity  and  air ! 

To  me  the  thought  of  death  is  terrible, 

Having  such  hold  on  life.     To  thee  it  is  not 

So  much  even  as  the  lifting  of  a  latch ; 

Only  a  step  into  the  open  air 

Out  of  a  tent  already  luminous 

With  light    that    shines   through   its   transparent 

walls ! 

O  pure  in  heart !  from  thy  sweet  dust  shall  grow 
Lilies,  upon  whose  petals  will  be  written 
"  Ave  Maria  "  in  characters  of  gold ! 


72  The  Golden  Legend 


III. 

A   STREET  IN   STRASBURG 

Night.      PRINCE   HENRY  wandering  alone,   wrapped  in   a 
cloak. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

STILL  is  the  night.     The  sound  of  feet 
Has  died  away  from  the  empty  street, 
And  like  an  artisan,  bending  down 
His  head  on  his  anvil,  the  dark  town 
Sleeps,  with  a  slumber  deep  and  sweet. 
Sleepless  and  restless,  I  alone, 
In  the  dusk  and  damp  of  these  walls  of  stone, 
Wander  and  weep  in  my  remorse  ! 

CRIER   OF   THE   DEAD,  ringing  a  bell. 

Wake  !  wake ! 
All  ye  that  sleep  ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Hark !  with  what  accents  loud  and  hoarse 
This  warder  on  the  walls  of  death 
Sends  forth  the  challenge  of  his  breath  ! 


The  Golden  Legend  73 

I  see  the  dead  that  sleep  in  the  grave ! 
They  rise  up  and  their  garments  wave, 
Dimly  and  spectral,  as  they  rise, 
With  the  light  of  another  world  in  their  eyes ! 

CRIER   OF    THE   DEAD. 

Wake !  wake ! 
All  ye  that  sleep  ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Why  for  the  dead,  who  are  at  rest  ? 

Pray  for  the  living,  in  whose  breast 

The  struggle  between  right  and  wrong 

Is  raging  terrible  and  strong, 

As  when  good  angels  war  with  devils  ! 

This  is  the  Master  of  the  Revels, 

Who,  at  Life's  flowing  feast,  proposes 

The  health  of  absent  friends,  and  pledges, 

Not  in  bright  goblets  crowned  with  roses, 

And  tinkling  as  we  touch  their  edges, 

But  with  his  dismal,  tinkling  bell, 

That  mocks  and  mimics  their  funeral  knell ! 

CRIER   OF    THE    DEAD. 

Wake !  wake ! 
All  ye  that  sleep  ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 
VOL.  vi.  4 


74  The  Goldm  Legend 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Wake  not,  beloved !  be  thy  sleep 
Silent  as  night  is,  and  as  deep  ! 
There  walks  a  sentinel  at  thy  gate 
Whose  heart  is  heavy  and  desolate, 
And  the  heavings  of  whose  bosom  number 
The  respirations  of  thy  slumber, 
As  if  some  strange,  mysterious  fate 
Had  linked  two  hearts  in  one,  and  mine 
Went  madly  wheeling  about  thine, 
Only  with  wider  and  wilder  sweep  ! 

CRIER  OF   THE   DEAD,  at  a  distance. 

Wake !  wake ! 
All  ye  that  sleep ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead  ! 
Pray  for  the  Dead ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Lo !  with  what  depth  of  blackness  thrown 
Against  the  clouds,  far  up  the  skies 
The  walls  of  the  cathedral  rise, 
Like  a  mysterious  grove  of  stone, 
With  fitful  lights  and  shadows  blending, 
As  from  behind,  the  moon,  ascending, 
Lights  its  dim  aisles  and  paths  unknown  ! 
The  wind  is  rising  •  but  the  boughs 
Rise  not  and  fall  not  with  the  wind 
That  through  their  foliage  sobs  and  soughs 
Only  the  cloudy  rack  behind, 


The  Golden  Legend  75 

Drifting  onward,  wild  and  ragged, 

Gives  to  each  spire  and  buttress  jagged 

A  seeming  motion  undefined. 

Below  on  the  square,  an  armed  knight, 

Still  as  a  statue  and  as  white, 

Sits  on  his  steed,  and  the  moonbeams  quiver 

Upon  the  points  of  his  armor  bright 

As  on  the  ripples  of  a  river. 

He  lifts  the  visor  from  his  cheek, 

And  beckons,  and  makes  as  he  would  speak. 

WALTER  the  Minnesinger. 
Friend !  can  you  tell  me  where  alight 
Thuringia's  horsemen  for  the  night  ? 
For  I  have  lingered  in  the  rear, 
And  wander  vainly  up  and  down. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

I  am  a  stranger  in  the  town, 
As  thou  art ;  but  the  voice  I  hear 
Is  not  a  stranger  to  mine  ear. 
Thou  art  Walter  of  the  Vogelweid ! 

WALTER. 

Thou  hast  guessed  rightly ;  and  thy  name 
Is  Henry  of  Hoheneck ! 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

Ay,  the  same. 
WALTER,  embracing  him. 
Come  closer,  closer  to  my  side ! 


76  The  Golden  Legend 

What  brings  thee  hither  ?     What  potent  charm 
Has  drawn  thee  from  thy  German  farm 
Into  the  old  Alsatian  city  ? 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

A  tale  of  wonder  and  of  pity ! 

A  wretched  man,  almost  by  stealth 

Dragging  my  body  to  Salem, 

In  the  vain  hope  and  search  for  health, 

And  destined  never  to  return. 

Already  thou  hast  heard  the  rest 

But  what  brings  thee,  thus  armed  and  dight 

In  the  equipments  of  a  knight  ? 

WALTER. 

Dost  thou  not  see  upon  my  breast 
The  cross  of  the  Crusaders  shine  ? 
My  pathway  leads  to  Palestine. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Ah,  would  that  way  were  also  mine ! 
O  noble  poet !  thou  whose  heart 
Is  like  a  nest  of  singing-birds 
Rocked  on  the  topmost  bough  of  life, 
Wflt  thou,  too,  from  our  sky  depart, 
And  in  the  clangor  of  the  strife 
Mingle  the  music  of  thy  words  ? 

WALTER, 

My  hopes  are  high,  my  heart  is  proud, 
And  like  a  trumpet  long  and  loud, 


TJie  Golden  Legend  77 

Thither  my  thoughts  all  clang  and  ring ! 
My  life  is  in  my  hand,  and  lo ! 
I  grasp  and  bend  it  as  a  bow, 
And  shoot  forth  from  its  trembling  string 
An  arrow,  that  shall  be,  perchance, 
Like  the  arrow  of  the  Israelite  king 
Shot  from  the  window  toward  the  east, 
That  of  the  Lord's  deliverance ! 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

My  life,  alas  !  is  what  thou  seest  \ 

0  enviable  fate !  to  be 

Strong,  beautiful,  and  armed  like  thee 

With  lyre  and  sword,  with  song  and  steel ; 

A  hand  to  smite,  a  heart  to  feel  3 

Thy  heart,  thy  hand,  thy  lyre,  thy  sword, 

Thou  givest  all  unto  thy  Lord ; 

While  I,  so  mean  and  abject  grown, 

Am  thinking  of  myself  alone. 

WALTER. 

Be  patient :   Time  will  reinstate 
Thy  health  and  fortunes. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

T  is  too  late ! 

1  cannot  strive  against  my  fate ! 

WALTER. 

Come  with  me  ;  for  my  steed  is  weary ; 
Our  journey  has  been  long  and  dreary, 


-;  .—.-  .- .:••-.  L  •:. --.:' 


Aad, 

-_i  -i_-  -~-~~,~.i~_~  ' .  ~.- 


:-  - :   •  . 

WUftB^  Kt  It  DC. 


'-',  '  .   : :  --'-. 
:  ~  ~ "     *~  i" 
Conewitkneto 
7:r  I  AJ.   i  -:- 

I-!;- 


not  do  it  for  «y  sake  ? 


^•-  :  ;  -  -    ._;    _::.:':;    .-,.-  _. 

To  Hkscha*,  m  Ac  foresrs  bomid, 


--  ----:-  ------  ~-~--.    -  -  "---   i" 


The  Golden  Legend  79 

My  maledictions  dark  and  deep. 
I  have  more  martyrs  in  your  walls 
Than  God  has;  and  they  cannot  sleep; 
They  are  my  bondsmen  and  my  thralls ; 
Their  wretched  lives  are  foil  of  pain, 
Wild  agonies  of  nerve  and  brain ; 
And  every  heart-bear,  every  breath^ 
Is  a  convulsion  worse  than  death ! 
Sleep,  sleep,  O  city !  though  within 
The  circuit  of  your  walls  there  be 
No  habitation  free  from  sin, 
And  all  its  nameless  misery  j 
The  Aching  heart,  the  arfring  head, 
Grief  for  the  living  and  the  dead, 
And  foul  corruption  of  the  time, 
Disease,  distress,  and  want,  and  woe, 
And  crimes,  and  passions  that  may  grow 
Until  they  ripen  into  crime ! 


SQUARE  EV  FRONT  OF  THE  CATHEDRAL 

Easter  Sxmdor.     FXIA*  CCTHBETT  preadaxg  *  tke  cnmd 
frtm  m  fmlfit  im  tJkf  ffat  mir.     PlDfCE  HES1Y  orf  EL9K 


PRINCE   HENRY. 

THIS  is  the  day,  when  from  the  dead 
Our  Lord  arose;  and  everywhere, 


c_    »•         » 


'   :  " 


The  GoUtm  LtemJ  Si 


Whatagaj  pageant!  vfcjt  bright 
It  looks  fikez 

is  tin*  yonder  on 


A 

And  a  Friar, 

_   .    1   ~   :     .  T    r :         :'" 

Tfat,if 
Db 


--    - 
What  ho  !  good  people!  do  JOH  not  •cv? 

1    r:-~r_    I'    ^5      11,  _    ,    r,l 


^>OQDCT  !  Vflflt  is  tfcc  BCIBL  1.  jxtzv  r 


.  r.r-  I  1.  r.::  :-_T   T    :     ;  :_  ri      :  .- 


w  vam* 


I  i;  -:: 


82  The  Golden  Legend 

And  here  comes  a  third,  who  is  spurring  amain  ; 
What  news  do  you  bring,  with  your  loose-hanging 

rein, 
Your  spurs  wet  with  blood,  and  your  bridle  with 

foam? 
"  Christ  is  arisen !  "     Whence  come  you  ?  "  From 

Rome." 

Ah,  now  I  believe.     He  is  risen,  indeed. 
Ride  on  with  the  news,  at  the  top  of  your  speed  ! 

Great  applause  among  the  crowd. 
To  come  back  to  my  text !     When  the  news  was 

first  spread 

That  Christ  was  arisen  indeed  from  the  dead, 
Very  great  was  the  joy  of  the  angels  in  heaven ; 
And  as  great  the  dispute  as  to  who  should  carry 
The  tidings  thereof  to  the  Virgin  Mary, 
Pierced  to  the  heart  with  sorrows  seven. 
Old  Father  Adam  was  first  to  propose, 
As  being  the  author  of  all  our  woes  ; 
But  he  was  refused,  for  fear,  said  they, 
He  would  stop  to  eat  apples  on  the  way ! 
Abel  came  next,  but  petitioned  in  vain, 
Because  he  might  meet  with  his  brother  Cain  ! 
Noah,  too,  was  refused,  lest  his  weakness  for  wine 
Should  delay  him  at  every  tavern-sign ; 
And  John  the  Baptist  could  not  get  a  vote, 
On  account  of  his  old-fashioned  camel's-hair  coat ; 
And  the  Penitent  Thief,  who  died  on  the  cross, 
Was  reminded  that  all  his  bones  were  broken  ! 


The  Golden.  Legend  83 

Till  at  last,  when  each  in  turn  had  spoken, 
The  company  being  still  at  a  loss, 
The  Angel,  who  rolled  away  the  stone, 
Was  sent  to  the  sepulchre,  all  alone, 
And  filled  with  glory  that  gloomy  prison, 
And  said  to  the  Virgin,  "  The  Lord  is  arisen ! " 

The  Cathedral  bells  ring. 

But  hark !  the  bells  are  beginning  to  chime ; 
And  I  feel  that  I  am  growing  hoarse. 
I  will  put  an  end  to  my  discourse, 
And  leave  the  rest  for  some  other  time. 
For  the  bells  themselves  are  the  best  of  preachers  ; 
Their  brazen  lips  are  learned  teachers, 
From  their  pulpits  of  stone,  in  the  upper  air, 
Sounding  aloft,  without  crack  or  flaw, 
Shriller  than  trumpets  under  the  Law, 
Now  a  sermon  and  now  a  prayer. 
The  clangorous  hammer  is  the  tongue, 
This  way,  that  way,  beaten  and  swung, 
That  from  mouth  of  brass,  as  from  Mouth  of  Gold, 
May  be  taught  the  Testaments,  New  and  Old. 
And  above  it  the  great  cross-beam  of  wood 
Representeth  the  Holy  Rood, 
Upon  which,  like  the  bell,  our  hopes  are  hung. 
And  the  wheel  wherewith  it  is  swayed  and  rung 
Is  the  mind  of  man,  that  round  and  round 
Sways,  and  maketh  the  tongue  to  sound ! 
And  the  rope,  with  its  twisted  cordage  three, 
Denoteth  the  Scriptural  Trinity 


84  The  Golden  Legend 

Of  Morals,  and  Symbols,  and  History ; 
And  the  upward  and  downward  motions  show 
That  we  touch  upon  matters  high  and  low ; 
And  the  constant  change  and  transmutation 
Of  action  and  of  contemplation, 
Downward,  the  Scripture  brought  from  on  high, 
Upward,  exalted  again  to  the  sky ; 
Downward,  the  literal  interpretation, 
Upward,  the  Vision  and  Mystery ! 

And  now,  my  hearers,  to  make  an  end, 

I  have  only  one  word  more  to  say ; 

In  the  church,  in  honor  of  Easter  day, 

Will  be  represented  a  Miracle  Play ; 

And  I  hope  you  will  all  have  the  grace  to  attend. 

Christ  bring  us  at  last  to  his  felicity ! 

Pax  vobiscum !  et  Benedicite  ! 


IN  THE  CATHEDRAL 
CHANT. 

Kyrie  Eleison ! 
Christe  Eleison ! 

ELSIE. 

I  am  at  home  here  in  my  Father's  house  ! 
These  paintings  of  the  Saints  upon  the  walls 
Have  all  familiar  and  benignant  faces. 


The  Golden  Legend  85 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

The  portraits  of  the  family  of  God ! 

Thine  own  hereafter  shall  be  placed  among  them. 

ELSIE. 

How  very  grand  it  is  and  wonderful ! 
Never  have  I  beheld  a  church  so  splendid  ! 
Such  columns,  and   such   arches,  and   such  win 
dows, 

So  many  tombs  and  statues  in  the  chapels, 
And  under  them  so  many  confessionals. 
They  must  be  for  the  rich.     I  should  not  like 
To  tell  my  sins  in  such  a  church  as  this. 
Who  built  it  ? 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

A  great  master  of  his  craft, 
Erwin  von  Steinbach ;  but  not  he  alone, 
For  many  generations  labored  with  him. 
Children  that  came  to  see  these  Saints  in  stone, 
As  day  by  day  out  of  the  blocks  they  rose, 
Grew  old  and  died,  and  still  the  work  went  on, 
And  on,  and  on,  and  is  not  yet  completed. 
The  generation  that  succeeds  our  own 
Perhaps  may  finish  it.     The  architect 
Built  his  great  heart  into  these  sculptured  stones, 
And  with  him  toiled  his  children,  and  their  lives 
Were  builded,  with  his  own,  into  the  walls, 
As  offerings  unto  God.     You  see  that  statue 
Fixing  its  joyous,  but  deep-wrinkled  eyes 


86  The  Golden  Legend 

Upon  the  Pillar  of  the  Angels  yonder. 
That  is  the  image  of  the  master,  carved 
By  the  fair  hand  of  his  own  child,  Sabina. 

ELSIE. 

How  beautiful  is  the  column  that  he  looks  at ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

That,  too,  she  sculptured.     At  the  base  of  it 
Stand  the  Evangelists;  above  their- heads 
Four  Angels  blowing  upon  marble  trumpets, 
And  over  them  the  blessed  Christ,  surrounded 
By  his  attendant  ministers,  upholding 
The  instruments  of  his  passion. 

ELSIE. 

O  my  Lord ! 

Would  I  could  leave  behind  me  upon  earth 
Some  monument  to  thy  glory,  such  as  this  ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

A  greater  monument  than  this  thou  leavest 
In  thine  own  life,  all  purity  and  love  ! 
See,  too,  the  Rose,  above  the  western  portal 
Resplendent  with  a  thousand  gorgeous  colors, 
The  perfect  flower  of  Gothic  loveliness  ! 

ELSIE. 

And,  in  the  gallery,  the  long  line  of  statues, 
Christ  with  his  twelve  Apostles  watching  us ! 

A  BISHOP  in  armor,  booted  and  spurred,  passes  "with  his  train. 


The  Golden  Legend  87 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

But  come  away ;  we  have  not  time  to  look. 
The  crowd  already  fills  the  church,  and  yonder 
Upon  a  stage,  a  herald  with  a  trumpet, 
Clad  like  the  Angel  Gabriel,  proclaims 
The  Mystery  that  will  now  be  represented. 


THE    NATIVITY 

A  MIRACLE-PLAY 

INTROITUS 
PR/ECO. 

COME,  good  people,  all  and  each, 
Come  and  listen  to  our  speech  ! 
In  your  presence  here  I  stand, 
With  a  trumpet  in  my  hand, 
To  announce  the  Easter  Play, 
Which  we  represent  to-day  ! 
First  of  all  we  shall  rehearse, 
In  our  action  and  our  verse, 
The  Nativity  of  our  Lord, 
As  written  in  the  old  record 
Of  the  Protevangelion, 
So  that  he  who  reads  may  run ! 

Blows  his  trumpet. 

I.    HEAVEN 

MERCY,  at  the  feet  of  God. 
Have  pity,  Lord !  be  not  afraid 
To  save  mankind,  whom  thou  hast  made, 


90  The  Golden  Legend 

Nor  let  the  souls  that  were  betrayed 
Perish  eternally ! 

JUSTICE. 

It  cannot  be,  it  must  not  be  ! 
When  in  the  garden  placed  by  thee, 
The  fruit  of  the  forbidden  tree 
He  ate,  and  he  must  die  ! 

MERCY. 

Have  pity,  Lord  !  let  penitence 
Atone  for  disobedience, 
Nor  let  the  fruit  of  man's  offence 
Be  endless  misery ! 

JUSTICE. 

What  penitence  proportionate 
Can  e'er  be  felt  for  sin  so  great  ? 
Of  the  forbidden  fruit  he  ate, 
And  damned  must  he  be ! 

GOD. 

He  shall  be  saved,  if  that  within 
The  bounds  of  earth  one  free  from  sin 
Be  found,  who  for  his  kith  and  kin 
Will  suffer  martyrdom. 

THE   FOUR   VIRTUES. 

Lord  !  we  have  searched  the  world  around, 
From  centre  to  the  utmost  bound, 
But  no  such  mortal  can  be  found ; 
Despairing,  back  we  come. 


The  Golden   Legend  91 

WISDOM. 

No  mortal,  but  a  God  made  man, 
Can  ever  carry  out  this  plan, 
Achieving  what  none  other  can, 
Salvation  unto  all ! 

GOD. 

Go,  then,  O  my  beloved  Son ! 
It  can  by  thee  alone  be  done ; 
By  thee  the  victory  shall  be  won 
O'er  Satan  and  the  Fall ! 

Here  the  ANGEL  GABRIEL  shall  leave  Paradise^and  fly  towards 
the  earth  ;  the  jaws  of  Hell  open  below,  and  the  Devils  walk 
about,  making  a  great  noise. 


II.    MARY   AT  THE   WELL 
MARY. 

Along  the  garden  walk,  and  thence 
Through  the  wicket  in  the  garden  fence, 

I  steal  with  quiet  pace, 
My  pitcher  at  the  well  to  fill, 
That  lies  so  deep  and  cool  and  still 

In  this  sequestered  place. 

These  sycamores  keep  guard  around ; 
I  see  no  face,  I  hear  no  sound, 
Save  bubblings  of  the  spring, 


92  The  Goldeit  Legend 

And  my  companions,  who  within 
The  threads  of  gold  and  scarlet  spin, 
And  at  their  labor  sing. 

THE   ANGEL   GABRIEL. 

Hail,  Virgin  Mary,  full  of  grace ! 
Here  MARY  looketh  around  her,  trembling,  and  then  saith . 

MARY. 

Who  is  it  speaketh  in  this  place, 
With  such  a  gentle  voice  ? 

GABRIEL. 

The  Lord  of  heaven  is  with  thee  now ! 
Blessed  among  all  women  thou, 
Who  art  his  holy  choice ! 

MARY,  setting  down  the  pitcher. 

What  can  this  mean  ?    No  one  is  near, 
And  yet,  such  sacred  words  I  hear, 
I  almost  fear  to  stay. 

Here  the  ANGEL,  appearing  to  her,  shall  say  : 

GABRIEL. 

Fear  not,  O  Mary !  but  believe ! 
For  thou,  a  Virgin,  shalt  conceive 
A  child  this  very  day. 

Fear  not,  O  Mary !  from  the  sky 
The  majesty  of  the  Most  High 
Shall  overshadow  thee ! 


The  Golden  Legend  93 

MARY. 

Behold  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord ! 
According  to  thy  holy  word, 
So  be  it  unto  me  ! 

Here  the  Devils  shall  again  make  a  great  noise,  under  the 
stage. 


III.  THE  ANGELS  OF  THE  SEVEN  PLANETS, 
BEARING  THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

THE   ANGELS. 

The  Angels  of  the  Planets  Seven, 
Across  the  shining  fields  of  heaven 

The  natal  star  we  bring ! 
Dropping  our  sevenfold  virtues  down, 
As  priceless  jewels  in  the  crown 

Of  Christ,  our  new-born  King. 

RAPHAEL. 

I  am  the  Angel  of  the  Sun, 
Whose  flaming  wheels  began  to  run 

When  God's  almighty  breath 
Said  to  the  darkness  and  the  Night, 
Let  there  be  light !  and  there  was  light ! 

I  bring  the  gift  of  Faith. 


94  TJie  Golden  Legend 

GABRIEL. 

I  am  the  Angel  of  the  Moon, 
Darkened,  to  be  rekindled  soon 

Beneath  the  azure  cope  ! 
Nearest  to  earth,  it  is  my  ray 
That  best  illumes  the  midnight  way. 

I  bring  the  gift  of  Hope ! 

AXAEL. 

The  Angel  of  the  Star  of  Love, 
The  Evening  Star,  that  shines  above 

The  place  where  lovers  be, 
Above  all  happy  hearths  and  homes, 
On  roofs  of  thatch,  or  golden  domes, 

I  give  him  Charity ! 

ZOBIACHEL. 

The  Planet  Jupiter  is  mine  ! 
The  mightiest  star  of  all  that  shine, 

Except  the  sun  alone ! 
He  is  the  High  Priest  of  the  Dove, 
And  sends,  from  his  great  throne  above, 

Justice,  that  shall  atone! 

MICHAEL. 

The  Planet  Mercury,  whose  place 
Is  nearest  to  the  sun  in  space, 

Is  my  allotted  sphere ! 
And  with  celestial  ardor  swift 
I  bear  upon  my  hands  the  gift 

Of  heavenly  Prudence  here  ! 


TJie  Golden  Legend  95 

URIEL. 

I  am  the  Minister  of  Mars, 
The  strongest  star  among  the  stars  ! 

My  songs  of  power  prelude 
The  march  and  battle  of  man's  life, 
And  for  the  suffering  and  the  strife, 

I  give  him  Fortitude ! 

ORIFEL. 

The  Angel  of  the  uttermost 
Of  all  the  shining,  heavenly  host, 

From  the  far-off  expanse 
Of  the  Saturnian,  endless  space 
I  bring  the  last,  the  crowning  grace, 

The  gift  of  Temperance ! 

A  sudden  light  shines  from  the  -mindaan  of  the  stable  in  the 
village  bdaso. 


IV.    THE   WISE   MEN   OF   THE   EAST 

The  staMe  of  the  Inn,  The  VIRGIN  and  CHILD.  Three 
Gypsy  Kings^  CASPAR,  MELCHIOR,  and  BELSHAZZAR, 
shall  come  in, 

CASPAR. 

Hail  to  thee,  Jesus  of  Nazareth ! 
Though  in  a  manger  thou  draw  breath, 
Thou  art  greater  than  Life  and  Death, 
Greater  than  Joy  or  Woe ! 


96  The  Golden  Legend 

This  cross  upon  the  line  of  life 
Portendeth  struggle,  toil,  and  strife, 
And  through  a  region  with  peril  rife 
In  darkness  shalt  thou  go ! 

MELCHIOR. 

Hail  to  thee,  King  of  Jerusalem ! 
Though  humbly  born  in  Bethlehem, 
A  sceptre  and  a  diadem 

Await  thy  brow  and  hand  ! 
The  sceptre  is  a  simple  reed, 
The  crown  will  make  thy  temples  bleed, 
And  in  thy  hour  of  greatest  need. 

Abashed  thy  subjects  stand  ! 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Hail  to  thee,  Christ  of  Christendom  ! 
O'er  all  the  earth  thy  kingdom  come ! 
From  distant  Trebizond  to  Rome 

Thy  name  shall  men  adore ! 
Peace  and  good-will  among  all  men, 
The  Virgin  has  returned  again, 
Returned  the  old  Saturnian  reign 

And  Golden  Age  once  more. 

THE   CHILD   CHRIST. 

Jesus,  the  Son  of  God,  am  I, 
Born  here  to  suffer  and  to  die 
According  to  the  prophecy, 
That  other  men  may  live ! 


97 


THE    VIRGIN. 

And  now  these  clothes,  that  wrapped  him,  take 
And  keep  them  precious,  for  his  sake  j 
Our  benediction  thus  we  make, 
Naught  else  have  we  to  give. 

She  gives  them  swaddling-clothes,  and  they  depart. 


V.    THE   FLIGHT   INTO   EGYPT 

Here  shall  JOSEPH  come  in,  leading  an  ass,  on  which  are  seated 
MARY  and  the  CHILD. 

MARY. 

Here  will  we  rest  us,  under  these 
O'erhanging  branches  of  the  trees, 
Where  robins  chant  their  Litanies 
And  canticles  of  joy. 

JOSEPH. 

My  saddle-girths  have  given  way 
With  trudging  through  the  heat  to-day  j 
To  you  I  think  it  is  but  play 
To  ride  and  hold  the  boy. 

MARY. 

Hark !  how  the  robins  shout  and  sing, 
As  if  to  hail  their  infant  King ! 
I  will  alight  at  yonder  spring 

To  wash  his  little  coat. 

VOL.  vi.  5  G 


98  The  Golden  Legend 

JOSEPH. 

And  I  will  hobble  well  the  ass, 
Lest,  being  loose  upon  the  grass, 
He  should  escape  ;  for,  by  the  mass, 
He 's  nimble  as  a  goat. 

Here  MARY  shall  alight  and  go  to  the  spring. 
MARY. 

0  Joseph  !     I  am  much  afraid, 
For  men  are  sleeping  in  the  shade ; 

1  fear  that  we  shall  be  waylaid, 

And  robbed  and  beaten  sore  ! 

Here  a  band  of  robbers  shall  be  seen  sleeping,  two  of -whom  shall 
rise  and  come  forward. 

DUMACHUS. 

Cock's  soul !  deliver  up  your  gold  ! 

JOSEPH. 

I  pray  you,  Sirs,  let  go  your  hold ! 
You  see  that  I  am  weak  and  old, 
Of  wealth  I  have  no  store. 

DUMACHUS. 
Give  up  your  money ! 

TITUS. 

Prithee  cease. 
Let  these  good  people  go  in  peace. 

DUMACHUS. 

First  let  them  pay  for  their  release, 
And  then  go  on  their  way. 


The  Golden  Legend  99 

TITUS. 

These  forty  groats  I  give  in  fee, 
If  thou  wilt  only  silent  be. 

MARY. 

May  God  be  merciful  to  thee 
Upon  the  Judgment  Day ! 

JESUS. 

When  thirty  years  shall  have  gone  by, 
I  at  Jerusalem  shall  die, 
By  Jewish  hands  exalted  high 

On  the  accursed  tree. 
Then  on  my  right  and  my  left  side, 
These  thieves  shall  both  be  crucified, 
And  Titus  thenceforth  shall  abide 

In  paradise  with  me. 

Here  a  great  rumor  of  trumpets  and  horses,  like  the  noise  of  a 
king  -with  his  army,  and  the  robbers  shall  take  flight. 


VI.     THE   SLAUGHTER   OF  THE   INNOCENTS 
KING   HEROD. 

Potz-tausend !     Himmel-sacrament ! 
Filled  am  I  with  great  wonderment 

At  this  unwelcome  news  ! 
Am  I  not  Herod  ?     Who  shall  dare 
My  crown  to  take,  my  sceptre  bear, 

As  king  among  the  Jews  ? 

Here  he  shall  stride  up  and  down  and  flourish  his  sword. 


IOO  The  Golden  Legend 

What  ho  !     I  fain  would  drink  a  can 
Of  the  strong  wine  of  Canaan  ! 

The  wine  of  Helbon  bring 
I  purchased  at  the  Fair  of  Tyre, 
As  red  as  blood,  as  hot  as  fire, 

And  fit  for  any  king ! 

He  quaffs  great  goblets  ofuaine. 

Now  at  the  window  will  I  stand, 
While  in  the  street  the  armed  band 

The  little  children  slay  : 
The  babe  just  born  in  Bethlehem 
Will  surely  slaughtered  be  with  them, 

Nor  live  another  day  ! 

Here  a  voice  of  lamentation  shall  be  heard  in  the  street. 
RACHEL. 

O  wicked  king  !     O  cruel  speed  ! 
To  do  this  most  unrighteous  deed  ! 
My  children  all  are  slain  ! 

HEROD. 

Ho  seneschal !  another  cup  ! 

With  wine  of  Sorek  fill  it  up ! 

I  would  a  bumper  drain  ! 

RAHAB. 

May  maledictions  fall  and  blast 
Thyself  and  lineage,  to  the  last 
Of  all  thy  kith  and  kin ! 


101 


HEROD. 


Another  goblet !  quick  !  and  stir 
Pomegranate  juice  and  drops  of  myrrh 
And  calamus  therein ! 

SOLDIERS,    in  the  street. 

Give  up  thy  child  into  our  hands  ! 

It  is  King  Herod  who  commands 

That  he  should  thus  be  slain  ! 

THE   NURSE   MEDUSA. 

O  monstrous  men  !     What  have  ye  done ! 
It  is  King  Herod's  only  son 
That  ye  have  cleft  in  twain  ! 

HEROD. 

Ah,  luckless  day !     What  words  of  fear 
Are  these  that  smite  upon  my  ear 

With  such  a  doleful  sound  ! 
What  torments  rack  my  heart  and  head ! 
Would  I  were  dead  !  would  I  were  dead, 

And  buried  in  the  ground  ! 

He  falls  down  and  writhes  as  though,  eaten  by  worms.  Hell 
opens,  and  SATAN  and  ASTAROTH  come  forth,  and  drag 
him  down. 


IO2  The  Golden  Legend 


VII.  JESUS  AT  PLAY  WITH  HIS  SCHOOLMATES 

JESUS. 

The  shower  is  over.     Let  us  play, 
And  make  some  sparrows  out  of  clay, 
Down  by  the  river's  side. 

JUDAS. 

See,  how  the  stream  has  overflowed 
Its  banks,  and  o'er  the  meadow  road 
Is  spreading  far  and  wide  ! 

They  draw  water  out  of  the  river  by  channels,  and  form  little 
pools.  JESUS  makes  twelve  sparrows  of  clay,  and  the  other 
boys  do  the  same. 

JESUS. 

Look !  look !  how  prettily  I  make 
These  little  sparrows  by  the  lake 

Bend  down  their  necks  and  drink  ! 
Now  will  I  make  them  sing  and  soar 
So  far,  they  shall  return  no  more 

Unto  this  river's  brink. 

JUDAS. 

That  canst  thou  not !     They  are  but  clay, 
They  cannot  sing,  nor  fly  away 
Above  the  meadow  lands ! 


The  Golden  Legend  103 

JESUS. 

Fly,  fly !  ye  sparrows  !  you  are  free  ! 
And  while  you  live,  remember  me, 
Who  made  you  with  my  hands. 

Here  JESUS  shall  clap  his  hands,  and  the  sparrows  shall  fly 
away,  chirruping. 

JUDAS. 

Thou  art  a  sorcerer,  I  know ; 
Oft  has  my  mother  told  me  so, 
I  will  not  play  with  thee  ! 

He  strikes  JESUS  on  the  right  side. 
JESUS. 

Ah,  Judas  !  thou  hast  smote  my  side, 
And  when  I  shall  be  crucified, 
There  shall  I  pierced  be ! 

Here  JOSEPH  shall  come  in,  and  say : 
JOSEPH. 

Ye  wicked  boys  !  why  do  ye  play, 
And  break  the  holy  Sabbath  day  ? 
What,  think  ye,  will  your  mothers  say 

To  see  you  in  such  plight ! 
In  such  a  sweat  and  such  a  heat, 
With  all  that  mud  upon  your  feet ! 
There 's  not  a  beggar  in  the  street 

Makes  such  a  sorry  sight ! 


IO4  The  Golden  Legend 


VIII.     THE  VILLAGE   SCHOOL 

The  RABBI  BEN  ISRAEL,  -with  a  long  beard,  sitting  on  a  high 
stool,  with  a  rod  in  his  hand. 

RABBI. 

I  am  the  Rabbi  Ben  Israel, 
Throughout  this  village  known  full  well, 
And,  as  my  scholars  all  will  tell, 

Learned  in  things  divine ; 
The  Cabala  and  Talmud  hoar 
Than  all  the  prophets  prize  I  more, 
For  water  is  all  Bible  lore, 

But  Mishna  is  strong  wine. 

My  fame  extends  from  West  to  East, 
And  always,  at  the  Purim  feast, 
I  am  as  drunk  as  any  beast 

That  wallows  in  his  sty ; 
The  wine  it  so  elateth  me, 
That  I  no  difference  can  see 
Between  "  Accursed  Haman  be  !  " 

And  "  Blessed  be  Mordecai ! " 

Come  hither,  Judas  Iscariot ; 
Say,  if  thy  lesson  thou  hast  got 
From  the  Rabbinical  Book  or  not. 
Why  howl  the  dogs  at  night  ? 


The  Golden  Legend  105 

JUDAS. 

In  the  Rabbinical  Book,  it  saith 
The  dogs  howl,  when  with  icy  breath 
Great  Sammael,  the  Angel  of  Death, 
Takes  through  the  town  his  flight ! 

RABBI. 

Well,  boy !  now  say,  if  thou  art  wise, 
When  the  Angel  of  Death,  who  is  full  of  eyes, 
Comes  where  a  sick  man  dying  lies, 
What  doth  he  to  the  wight  ? 

JUDAS. 

He  stands  beside  him,  dark  and  tall, 
Holding  a  sword,  from  which  doth  fall 
Into  his  mouth  a  drop  of  gall, 
And  so  he  turneth  white. 

RABBI. 

And  now,  my  Judas,  say  to  me 
What  the  great  Voices  Four  may  be, 
That  quite  across  the  world  do  flee, 
And  are  not  heard  by  men  ? 

JUDAS. 

The  Voice  of  the  Sun  in  heaven's  dome, 
The  Voice  of  the  Murmuring  of  Rome, 
The  Voice  of  a  Soul  that  goeth  home, 
And  the  Angel  of  the  Rain  ! 
5* 


106  The  CfUtm  Ligmd 


" .  ?    ' r  .  r    -     .         : _r  . 

Xov  fitde  Jests*  Ike  cmiu^u\ 
Let  us  see  hav  drr  task  ts  done, 


Whatwst?    Dow*  stop  yet! 
Go  on  v«k  all  ifce  alpfabet. 
Coime,  Afcpl^Brdi;  dosttboefofget? 
Cock  s  sod !  tboa  'dst  ratfaer  play  I 

JRHS. 
Beiorr  I  anyfmbcrgo! 


^O  "^  «^^^*  •••"  """-"• 

COMC  hither,  boy,  to  MC. 

A-    r_-r         li   ^r      --;:    "  :-I 

Owe  okd  alood,  and  spake  to  God, 
So  sareif  shak  tfaov  fed  tbs  rod, 
fl«il  •!••  hi  il  ilil  [Tun  In  • 


-- ,-     -,,  -  .-, 


The  Golden  Legend  107 


DC   CROWNED  WITH  FLOWERS 


We  spread  oar  garments  on  the  ground ! 
^  ith  fragrant  fowecs  thy  bead  is  crowned, 
Wink  Eke  a  goard  re  staid  around, 

A- .  - :-_•-:  -.:-.—  ---  --  -.:  >i-_ 

Thoa  art  the  new  King  of  the  Jews! 

N    :  .-:  -.;--  ;  ----'--'._    :.:.-- 

T:      "  '  j  ".."  i:  r. :  *:  ^j~      :...:.  ~  -  ~    ..-- 

i  tike  tff*  **  t*y  Ui  f  Mt 


Cove  hither!  and  afl  reverence  pay 
T_  nto  (Mr  monarch,  crowned  to-day ! 

~:.-'.  ;:  rt;:;~r_i-  :r.  ; .:  _-  -iy. 
In  all  prosperity ! 


Hail  to  the  King  of  Bethlehem, 

\%  oO  VCflDCOl.  tO  BIS  (u&OCBI 

The  yeQov  crocus  for  the  gem 

f    .,  i_-:-- 


io8  The  Golden  Legend 

BOYS. 

Set  down  the  litter  and  draw  near  ! 
The  King  of  Bethlehem  is  here  ! 
What  ails  the  child,  who  seems  to  fear 
That  we  shall  do  him  harm  ? 

THE    BEARERS. 

He  climbed  up  to  the  robin's  nest, 
And  out  there  darted,  from  his  rest, 
A  serpent  with  a  crimson  crest, 
And  stung  him  in  the  arm. 

JESUS. 

Bring  him  to  me,  and  let  me  feel 
The  wounded  place ;  my  touch  can  heal 
The  sting  of  serpents,  and  can  steal 

The  poison  from  the  bite  ! 

He  touches  the  wound,  and  the  boy  begins  to  cry. 
Cease  to  lament !  I  can  foresee 
That  thou  hereafter  known  shalt  be, 
Among  the  men  who  follow  me, 

As  Simon  the  Canaanite ! 

EPILOGUE. 

In  the  after  part  of  the  day 
Will  be  represented  another  play, 
Of  the  Passion  of  our  Blessed  Lord, 
Beginning  directly  after  Nones  ! 
At  the  close  of  which  we  shall  accord, 
By  way  of  benison  and  reward, 
The  sight  of  a  holy  Martyr's  bones ! 


The  Golden  Legend  109 


IV. 


THE   ROAD   TO   HIRSCHAU 

PRINCE  HENRY  and  ELSIE,  -with  their  attendants,  on  horse 
back, 

ELSIE. 

ONWARD  and  onward  the  highway  runs  to  the 
distant  city,  impatiently  bearing 
Tidings  of  human  joy  and  disaster,  of  love  and  of 
hate,  of  doing  and  daring  ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

This  life  of  ours  is  a  wild  asolian  harp  of  many  a 

joyous  strain, 
But  under  them  all  there  runs  a  loud  perpetual 

wail,  as  of  souls  in  pain. 

ELSIE. 

Faith  alone  can  interpret  life,  and  the  heart  that 
aches  and  bleeds  with  the  stigma 

Of  pain,  alone  bears  the  likeness  of  Christ,  and 
can  comprehend  its  dark  enigma. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Man  is  selfish,  and  seeketh  pleasure  with  little  care 
of  what  may  betide 


no  The  Golden  Legend 

Else  why  am  I  travelling  here  beside  thee,  a  demon 
that  rides  by  an  angel's  side  ? 


ELSIE. 


All  the  hedges  are  white  with  dust,  and  the  great 

dog  under  the  creaking  wain 
Hangs  his  head  in  the  lazy  heat,  while  onward  the 

horses  toil  and  strain. 


PRINCE    HENRY. 


Now  they  stop  at  the  way-side  inn,  and  the  wagoner 
laughs  with  the  landlord's  daughter, 

While  out  of  the  dripping  trough  the  horses  distend 
their  leathern  sides  with  water. 

ELSIE. 

All  through  life  there  are  wayside  inns,  where  man 

may  refresh  his  soul  with  love  ; 
Even  the  lowest  may  quench  his  thirst  at  rivulets 

fed  by  springs  from  above. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Yonder,  where  rises  the  cross  of  stone,  our  journey 

along  the  highway  ends, 
And  over  the  fields,  by  a  bridle  path,  down  into  the 

broad  green  valley  descends. 

ELSIE. 

I  am  not  sorry  to  leave  behind  the  beaten  road  with 
its  dust  and  heat ; 


The  Golden  Legend  in 

The  air  will  be  sweeter  far,  and  the  turf  will  be 
softer  under  our  horses'  feet. 

TTiey  turn  down  a  green  lane. 
ELSIE. 

Sweet  is  the  air  with  the  budding  haws,  and  the 

valleys  stretching  for  miles  below 
Is  white  with   blossoming   cherry-trees,  as  if  just 

covered  with  lightest  snow. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Over  our  heads  a  white  cascade  is  gleaming  against 

the  distant  hill ; 
We  cannot  hear  it,  nor  see  it  move,  but  it  hangs 

like  a  banner  when  winds  are  still. 

ELSIE. 

Damp  and  cool  is  this  deep  ravine,  and  cool  the 

sound  of  the  brook  by  our  side  ! 
What  is  this  castle  that  rises  above  us,  and  lords  it 

over  a  land  so  wide  ? 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

It  is  the  home  of  the  Counts  of  Calva  ;  well  have  I 

known  these  scenes  of  old, 
Well  I  remember  each  tower  and  turret,  remember 

the  brooklet,  the  wood,  and  the  wold. 

ELSIE. 

Hark  !  from  the  little  village  below  us  the  bells  of 
the  church  are  ringing  for  rain ! 


112  The  Golden  Legend 

Priests  and  peasants  in  long  procession  come  forth 
and  kneel  on  the  arid  plain. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

They  have  not  long  to  wait,  for  I  see  in  the  south 

uprising  a  little  cloud, 
That  before  the  sun  shall  be  set  will  cover  the  sky 

above  us  as  with  a  shroud. 

They  pass  on. 


THE  CONVENT  OF  HIRSCHAU   IN   THE  BLACK 
FOREST 

Tke  Convent  cellar.     FRIAR  CLAUS  comes  in  with  a  light  and 
a  basket  of  empty  flagons. 

FRIAR    CLAUS. 

I  ALWAYS  enter  this  sacred  place 

With  a  thoughtful,  solemn,  and  reverent  pace, 

Pausing  long  enough  on  each  stair 

To  breathe  an  ejaculatory  prayer, 

And  a  benediction  on  the  vines 

That  produce  these  various  sorts  of  wines  ! 

For  my  part,  I  am  well  content 

That  we  have  got  through  with  the  tedious  Lent ! 

Fasting  is  all  very  well  for  those 

Who  have  to  contend  with  invisible  foes  ; 


The  Golden  Legend  113 

But  I  am  quite  sure  it  does  not  agree 

With  a  quiet,  peaceable  man  like  me, 

Who  am  not  of  that  nervous  and  meagre  kind 

That  are  always  distressed  in  body  and  mind ! 

And  at  times  it  really  does  me  good 

To  come  down  among  this  brotherhood, 

Dwelling  forever  under  ground, 

Silent,  contemplative,  round  and  sound ; 

Each  one  old,  and  brown  with  mould, 

But  filled  to  the  lips  with  the  ardor  of  youth, 

With  the  latent  power  and  love  of  truth, 

And  with  virtues  fervent  and  manifold. 

I  have  heard  it  said,  that  at  Easter-tide, 
When  buds  are  swelling  on  every  side, 
And  the  sap  begins  to  move  in  the  vine, 
Then  in  all  cellars,  far  and  wide, 
The  oldest,  as  well  as  the  newest,  wine 
Begins  to  stir  itself,  and  ferment, 
With  a  kind  of  revolt  and  discontent 
At  being  so  long  in  darkness  pent, 
And  fain  would  burst  from  its  sombre  tun 
To  bask  on  the  hillside  in  the  sun ; 
As  in  the  bosom  of  us  poor  friars, 
The  tumult  of  half-subdued  desires 
For  the  world  that  we  have  left  behind 
Disturbs  at  times  all  peace  of  mind  ! 
And  now  that  we  have  lived  through  Lent, 
My  duty  it  is,  as  often  before, 

VOL.  VI.  H 


H4  The  Golden  Legend 

To  open  awhile  the  prison-door, 
And  give  these  restless  spirits  vent. 

Now  here  is  a  cask  that  stands  alone, 

And  has  stood  a  hundred  years  or  more, 

Its  beard  of  cobwebs,  long  and  hoar, 

Trailing  and  sweeping  along  the  floor, 

Like  Barbarossa,  who  sits  in  his  cave, 

Taciturn,  sombre,  sedate,  and  grave, 

Till  his  beard  has  grown  through  the  table  of  stone  ! 

It  is  of  the  quick  and  not  of  the  dead  ! 

In  its  veins  the  blood  is  hot  and  red, 

And  a  heart  still  beats  in  those  ribs  of  oak 

That  time  may  have  tamed,  but  has  not  broke  ! 

It  comes  from  Bacharach  on  the  Rhine, 

Is  one  of  the  three  best  kinds  of  wine, 

And  costs  some  hundred  florins  the  ohm  ; 

But  that  I  do  not  consider  dear, 

When  I  remember  that  every  year 

Four  butts  are  sent  to  the  Pope  of  Rome. 

And  whenever  a  goblet  thereof  I  drain, 

The  old  rhyme  keeps  running  in  my  brain  : 
At  Bacharach  on  the  Rhine, 
At  Hochheim  on  the  Main, 
And  at  Wiirzburg  on  the  Stein, 
Grow  the  three  best  kinds  of  wine  ! 

They  are  all  good  wines,  and  better  far 
Than  those  of  the  Neckar,  or  those  of  the  Ahr. 


The  Golden  Legend  115 

In  particular,  Wiirzburg  well  may  boast 
Of  its  blessed  wine  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
Which  of  all  wines  I  like  the  most. 
This  I  shall  draw  for  the  Abbot's  drinking, 
Who  seems  to  be  much  of  my  way  of  thinking. 

Fills  a  flagon. 

Ah !  how  the  streamlet  laughs  and  sings  ! 

What  a  delicious  fragrance  springs 

From  the  deep  flagon,  while  it  fills, 

As  of  hyacinths  and  daffodils  ! 

Between  this  cask  and  the  Abbot's  lips 

Many  have  been  the  sips  and  slips ; 

Many  have  been  the  draughts  of  wine, 

On  their  way  to  his,  that  have  stopped  at  mine  ; 

And  many  a  time  my  soul  has  hankered 

For  a  deep  draught  out  of  his  silver  tankard, 

When  it  should  have  been  busy  with  other  affairs, 

Less  with  its  longings  and  more  with  its  prayers. 

But  now  there  is  no  such  awkward  condition, 

No  danger  of  death  and  eternal  perdition ; 

So  here  's-to  the  Abbot  and  Brothers  all, 

Who  dwell  in  this  convent  of  Peter  and  Paul ! 

He  drinks. 

O  cordial  delicious  !     O  soother  of  pain ! 
It  flashes  like  sunshine  into  my  brain  ! 
A  benison  rest  on  the  Bishop  who  sends 
Such  a  fudder  of  wine  as  this  to  his  friends ! 


n6  The  Golden  Legend 

And  now  a  flagon  for  such  as  may  ask 

A  draught  from  the  noble  Bacharach  cask, 

And  I  will  be  gone,  though  I  know  full  well 

The  cellar 's  a  cheerfuller  place  than  the  cell. 

Behold  where  he  stands,  all  sound  and  good, 

Brown  and  old  in  his  oaken  hood  ; 

Silent  he  seems  externally 

As  any  Carthusian  monk  may  be  ; 

But  within,  what  a  spirit  of  deep  unrest ! 

What  a  seething  and  simmering  in  his  breast ! 

As  if  the  heaving  of  his  great  heart 

Would  burst  his  belt  of  oak  apart ! 

Let  me  unloose  this  button  of  wood, 

And  quiet  a  little  his  turbulent  mood. 

Sets  it  running. 

See  !  how  its  currents  gleam  and  shine, 
As  if  they  had  caught  the  purple  hues 
Of  autumn  sunsets  on  the  Rhine, 
Descending  and  mingling  with  the  dews  ; 
Or  as  if  the  grapes  were  stained  with  the  blood 
Of  the  innocent  boy,  who,  some  years  back, 
Was  taken  and  crucified  by  the  Jews, 
In  that  ancient  town  of  Bacharach ; 
Perdition  upon  those  infidel  Jews, 
In  that  ancient  town  of  Bacharach  ! 
The  beautiful  town,  that  gives  us  wine 
With  the  fragrant  odor  of  Muscadine  ! 
I  should  deem  it  wrong  to  let  this  pass 
Without  first  touching  my  lips  to  the  glass, 


The  Golden  Legend  117 

For  here  in  the  midst  of  the  current  I  stand, 
Like  the  stone  Pfalz  in  the  midst  of  the  river, 
Taking  toll  upon  either  hand, 
And  much  more  grateful  to  the  giver. 

He  drinks. 

Here,  now,  is  a  very  inferior  kind, 
Such  as  in  any  town  you  may  find, 
Such  as  one  might  imagine  would  suit 
The  rascal  who  drank  wine  out  of  a  boot. 
And,  after  all,  it  was  not  a  crime, 
For  he  won  thereby  Dorf  Hiiffelsheim. 
A  jolly  old  toper  !  who  at  a  pull 
Could  drink  a  postilion's  jack-boot  full, 
And  ask  with  a  laugh,  when  that  was  done, 
If  the  fellow  had  left  the  other  one ! 
This  wine  is  as  good  as  we  can  afford 
To  the  friars,  who  sit  at  the  lower  board, 
And  cannot  distinguish  bad  from  good, 
And  are  far  better  off  than  if  they  could, 
Being  rather  the  rude  disciples  of  beer 
Than  of  anything  more  refined  and  dear  ! 
Fills  the  other  flagon  and  departs. 


n8  The  Golden  Legend 


THE   SCRIPTORIUM 

FRIAR  PACIFICUS  transcribing  and  illuminating. 
FRIAR   PACIFICUS. 

IT  is  growing  dark  !     Yet  one  line  more, 
And  then  my  work  for  to-day  is  o'er. 
I  come  again  to  the  name  of  the  Lord ! 
Ere  I  that  awful  name  record, 
That  is  spoken  so  lightly  among  men, 
Let  me  pause  awhile,  and  wash  my  pen  ; 
Pure  from  blemish  and  blot  must  it  be 
When  it  writes  that  word  of  mystery ! 

Thus  have  I  labored  on  and  on, 

Nearly  through  the  Gospel  of  John. 

Can  it  be  that  from  the  lips 

Of  this  same  gentle  Evangelist, 

That  Christ  himself  perhaps  has  kissed, 

Came  the  dread  Apocalypse  ! 

It  has  a  very  awful  look, 

As  it  stands  there  at  the  end  of  the  book, 

Like  the  sun  in  an  eclipse. 

Ah  me !  when  I  think  of  that  vision  divine, 

Think  of  writing  it,  line  by  line, 

I  stand  in  awe  of  the  terrible  curse, 

Like  the  trump  of  doom,  in  the  closing  verse ! 

God  forgive  me !  if  ever  I 


The  Golden  Legend  119 

Take  aught  from  the  book  of  that  Prophecy, 
Lest  my  part  too  should  be  taken  away 
From  the  Book  of  Life  on  the  Judgment  Day. 

This  is  well  written,  though  I  say  it ! 
I  should  not  be  afraid  to  display  it, 
In  open  day,  on  the  selfsame  shelf 
With  the  writings  of  St.  Thecla  herself, 
Or  of  Theodosius,  who  of  old 
Wrote  the  Gospels  in  letters  of  gold ! 
That  goodly  folio  standing  yonder, 
Without  a  single  blot  or  blunder, 
Would  not  bear  away  the  palm  from  mine, 
If  we  should  compare  them  line  for  line. 

There,  now,  is  an  initial  letter ! 

Saint  Ulric  himself  never  made  a  better ! 

Finished  down  to  the  leaf  and  the  snail, 

Down  to  the  eyes  on  the  peacock's  tail ! 

And  now,  as  I  turn  the  volume  over, 

And  see  what  lies  between  cover  and  cover, 

What  treasures  of  art  these  pages  hold, 

All  ablaze  with  crimson  and  gold, 

God  forgive  me  !     I  seem  to  feel 

A  certain  satisfaction  steal 

Into  my  heart,  and  into  my  brain, 

As  if  my  talent  had  not  lain 

Wrapped  in  a  napkin,  and  all  in  vain. 

Yes,  I  might  almost  say  to  the  Lord, 


I2O  The  Golden  Legend 

Here  is  a  copy  of  thy  Word, 
Written  out  with  much  toil  and  pain  ; 
Take  it,  O  Lord,  and  let  it  be 
As  something  I  have  done  for  thee  ! 
He  looks  from  the  window. 

How  sweet  the  air  is  !     How  fair  the  scene ! 
I  wish  I  had  as  lovely  a  green 
To  paint  my  landscapes  and  my  leaves ! 
How  the  swallows  twitter  under  the  eaves  ! 
There,  now,  there  is  one  in  her  nest ; 
I  can  just  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  head  and  breast, 
And  will  sketch  her  thus,  in  her  quiet  nook, 
For  the  margin  of  my  Gospel  book. 

He  makes  a  sketch. 

I  can  see  no  more.     Through  the  valley  yonder 
A  shower  is  passing ;  I  hear  the  thunder 
Mutter  its  curses  in  the  air, 
The  Devil's  own  and  only  prayer ! 
The  dusty  road  is  brown  with  rain, 
And,  speeding  on  with  might  and  main, 
Hitherward  rides  a  gallant  train. 
They  do  not  parley,  they  cannot  wait, 
But  hurry  in  at  the  convent  gate. 
What  a  fair  lady  !  and  beside  her 
What  a  handsome,  graceful,  noble  rider ! 
Now  she  gives  him  her  hand  to  alight ; 
They  will  beg  a  shelter  for  the  night. 
I  will  go  down  to  the  corridor, 
And  try  to  see  that  face  once  more ; 


The  Golden  Legend  121 

It  will  do  for  the  face  of  some  beautiful  Saint, 
Or  for  one  of  the  Maries  I  shall  paint. 

Goes  out. 


THE   CLOISTERS 

The  ABBOT  ERNESTUS  pacing  to  and  fro. 
ABBOT. 

SLOWLY,  slowly  up  the  wall 
Steals  the  sunshine,  steals  the  shade  ; 
Evening  damps  begin  to  fall, 
Evening  shadows  are  displayed. 
Round  me,  o'er  me,  everywhere, 
All  the  sky  is  grand  with  clouds, 
And  athwart  the  evening  air 
Wheel  the  swallows  home  in  crowds. 
Shafts  of  sunshine  from  the  west 
Paint  the  dusky  windows  red  ; 
Darker  shadows,  deeper  rest, 
Underneath  and  overhead. 
Darker,  darker,  and  more  wan, 
In  my  breast  the  shadows  fall ; 
Upward  steals  the  life  of  man, 
As  the  sunshine  from  the  wall. 
From  the  wall  into  the  sky, 
From  the  roof  along  the  spire  ; 

VOL.  VI.  6 


122  The  Golden  Legend 

Ah,  the  souls  of  those  that  die 
Are  but  sunbeams  lifted  higher. 

Enter  PRINCE  HENRY. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

Christ  is  arisen ! 

ABBOT. 

Amen  !  he  is  arisen ! 
His  peace  be  with  you ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Here  it  reigns  forever ! 

The  peace  of  God,  that  passeth  understanding, 
Reigns  in  these  cloisters  and  these  corridors. 
Are  you  Ernestus,  Abbot  of  the  convent  ? 

ABBOT. 
^am. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

And  I  Prince  Henry  of  Hoheneck, 
Who  crave  your  hospitality  to-night. 

ABBOT. 

You  are  thrice  welcome  to  our  humble  walls. 
You  do  us  honor ;  and  we  shall  requite  it, 
I  fear,  but  poorly,  entertaining  you 
With  Paschal  eggs,  and  our  poor  convent  wine, 
The  remnants  of  our  Easter  holidays. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

How  fares  it  with  the  holy  monks  of  Hirschau  ? 
Are  all  things  well  with  them  ? 


The  Golden  Legend  123 

ABBOT. 

All  things  are  well. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

A  noble  convent !     I  have  known  it  long 

By  the  report  of  travellers.     I  now  see 

Their  commendations  lag  behind  the  truth. 

You  lie  here  in  the  valley  of  the  Nagold 

As  in  a  nest :  and  the  still  river,  gliding 

Along  its  bed,  is  like  an  admonition 

How  all  things  pass.     Your  lands  are  rich  and 

ample, 

And  your  revenues  large.     God's  benediction 
Rests  on  your  convent. 

ABBOT. 

By  our  charities 

We  strive  to  merit  it.     Our  Lord  and  Master, 
When  he  departed,  left  us  in  his  will, 
As  our  best  legacy  on  earth,  the  poor ! 
These  we  have  always  with  us ;  had  we  not, 
Our  hearts  would  grow  as  hard  as  are  these  stones. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

If  I  remember  right,  the  Counts  of  Calva 
Founded  your  convent. 

ABBOT. 

Even  as  you  say. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

And,  if  I  err  not,  it  is  very  old. 


124  The  Golden  Legend 

ABBOT. 

Within  these  cloisters  lie  already  buried 
Twelve  holy  Abbots.     Underneath  the  flags 
On  which  we  stand,  the  Abbot  William  lies, 
Of  blessed  memory. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

And  whose  tomb  is  that, 
Which  bears  the  brass  escutcheon  ? 

ABBOT. 

A  benefactor's. 

Conrad,  a  Count  of  Calva,  he  who  stood 
Godfather  to  our  bells. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Your  monks  are  learned 
And  holy  men,  I  trust. 

ABBOT. 

There  are  among  them 
Learned  and  holy  men.     Yet  in  this  age 
We  need  another  Hildebrand,  to  shake 
And  purify  us  like  a  mighty  wind. 
The  world  is  wicked,  and  sometimes  I  wonder 
God  does  not  lose  his  patience  with  it  wholly, 
And  shatter  it  like  glass  !     Even  here,  at  times, 
Within  these  walls,  where  all  should  be  at  peace, 
I  have  my  trials.     Time  has  laid  his  hand 
Upon  my  heart,  gently,  not  smiting  it, 
But  as  a  harper  lays  his  open  palm 


The  Golden  Legend  125 

Upon  his  harp,  to  deaden  its  vibrations. 
Ashes  are  on  my  head,  and  on  my  lips 
Sackcloth,  and  in  my  breast  a  heaviness 
And  weariness  of  life,  that  makes  me  ready 
To  say  to  the  dead  Abbots  under  us, 
"  Make  room  for  me ! "     Only  I  see  the  dusk 
Of  evening  twilight  coming,  and  have  not 
Completed  half  my  task  ;  and  so  at  times 
The  thought  of  my  short-comings  in  this  life 
Falls  like  a  shadow  on  the  life  to  come. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

We  must  all  die,  and  not  the  old  alone ; 

The  young  have  no  exemption  from  that  doom. 

ABBOT. 

Ah,  yes !  the  young  may  die,  but  the  old  must ! 
That  is  the  difference. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

I  have  heard  much  laud 
Of  your  transcribers.     Your  Scriptorium 
Is  famous  among  all ;  your  manuscripts 
Praised  for  their  beauty  and  their  excellence. 

ABBOT. 

That  is  indeed  our  boast.     If  you  desire  it, 
You  shall  behold  these  treasures.     And  meanwhile 
Shall  the  Refectorarius  bestow 
Your  horses  and  attendants  for  the  night. 

They  go  in.     The  Vesper-bell  rings. 


126  The  Golden  Legend 


THE  CHAPEL 

Vespers ;  after  which  the  monks  retire,  a  chorister  leading  an 
old  monk  who  is  blind. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

THEY  are  all  gone,  save  one  who  lingers, 
Absorbed  in  deep  and  silent  prayer. 
As  if  his  heart  could  find  no  rest, 
At  times  he  beats  his  heaving  breast 
With  clenched  and  convulsive  fingers, 
Then  lifts  them  trembling  in  the  air. 
A  chorister,  with  golden  hair, 
Guides  hitherward  his  heavy  pace. 
Can  it  be  so  ?     Or  does  my  sight 
Deceive  me  in  the  uncertain  light  ? 
Ah  no  !     I  recognize  that  face, 
Though  Time  has  touched  it  in  his  flight, 
And  changed  the  auburn  hair  to  white. 
It  is  Count  Hugo  of  the  Rhine, 
The  deadliest  foe  of  all  our  race, 
And  hateful  unto  me  and  mine ! 

THE   BLIND   MONK. 

Who  is  it  that  doth  stand  so  near 
His  whispered  words  I  almost  hear  ? 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

I  am  Prince  Henry  of  Hoheneck, 
And  you,  Count  Hugo  of  the  Rhine  ! 


The  Golden    Legend  127 

I  know  you,  and  I  see  the  scar, 
The  brand  upon  your  forehead,  shine 
And  redden  like  a  baleful  star  ! 

THE    BLIND  MONK. 

Count  Hugo  once,  but  now  the  wreck 

Of  what  I  was.     O  Hoheneck  ! 

The  passionate  will,  the  pride,  the  wrath 

That  bore  me  headlong  on  my  path, 

Stumbled  and  staggered  into  fear, 

And  failed  me  in  my  mad  career, 

As  a  tired  steed  some  evil-doer, 

Alone  upon  a  desolate  moor, 

Bewildered,  lost,  deserted,  blind, 

And  hearing  loud  and  close  behind 

The  o'ertaking  steps  of  his  pursuer. 

Then  suddenly  from  the  dark  there  came 

A  voice  that  called  me  by  my  name, 

And  said  to  me,  "  Kneel  down  and  pray  !  " 

And  so  my  terror  passed  away, 

Passed  utterly  away  forever. 

Contrition,  penitence,  remorse, 

Came  on  me,  with  o'erwhelming  force ; 

A  hope,  a  longing,  an  endeavor, 

By  days  of  penance  and  nights  of  prayer, 

To  frustrate  and  defeat  despair  ! 

Calm,  deep,  and  still  is  now  my  heart, 

With  tranquil  waters  overflowed  ; 

A  lake  whose  unseen  fountains  start, 


128  The  Golden  Legend 

Where  once  the  hot  volcano  glowed. 

And  you,  O  Prince  of  Hoheneck  ! 

Have  known  me  in  that  earlier  time, 

A  man  of  violence  and  crime, 

Whose  passions  brooked  no  curb  nor  check. 

Behold  me  now,  in  gentler  mood, 

One  of  this  holy  brotherhood. 

Give  me  your  hand  ;  here  let  me  kneel ; 

Make  your  reproaches  sharp  as  steel ; 

Spurn  me,  and  smite  me  on  each  cheek ; 

No  violence  can  harm  the  meek, 

There  is  no  wound  Christ  cannot  heal ! 

Yes  ;  lift  your  princely  hand,  and  take 

Revenge,  if  't  is  revenge  you  seek  ; 

Then  pardon  me,  for  Jesus'  sake  ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Arise,  Count  Hugo  !  let  there  be 

No  farther  strife  nor  emnity 

Between  us  twain ;  we  both  have  erred  ! 

Too  rash  in  act,  too  wroth  in  word. 

From  the  beginning  have  we  stood 

In  fierce,  defiant  attitude, 

Each  thoughtless  of  the  other's  right, 

And  each  reliant  on  his  might. 

But  now  our  souls  are  more  subdued ; 

The  hand  of  God,  and  not  in  vain, 

Has  touched  us  with  the  fire  of  pain. 

Let  us  kneel  down,  and  side  by  side 


The  Golden  Legend  129 


Pray,  till  our  souls  are  purified, 
And  pardon  will  not  be  denied  ! 
They  kneel. 


THE   REFECTORY 

Gaudiolum  of  Monks  at  midnight.     LUCIFER  disguised  as  a 
Friar. 

FRIAR    PAUL   sings. 

AVE  !  color  vini  clari, 
Dulcis  potus,  non  amari, 
Tua  nos  inebriari 
Digneris  potentia ! 

FRIAR   CUTHBERT. 

Not  so  much  noise,  my  worthy  freres, 
You  '11  disturb  the  Abbot  at  his  prayers. 

FRIAR  PAUL  sings. 

O  !  quam  placens  in  colore  ! 
O  !  quam  fragrans  in  odore ! 
O  !  quam  sapidum  in  ore  ! 
Dulce  linguae  vinculum! 

FRIAR    CUTHBERT. 

I  should  think  your  tongue  had  broken  its  chain ! 

FRIAR    PAUL   sings. 

Felix  venter  quern  intrabis  ! 
Felix  guttur  quod  rigabis ! 

VOL.  VI.  6*  I 


130  The  Golden  Legend 

Felix  os  quod  tu  lavabis ! 
Et  beata  labia ! 

FRIAR   CUTHBERT. 

Peace !  I  say,  peace  ! 
Will  you  never  cease  ! 
You  will  rouse  up  the  Abbot,  I  tell  you  again ! 

FRIAR   JOHN. 

No  danger !  to-night  he  will  let  us  alone, 

As  I  happen  to  know  he  has  guests  of  his  own. 

FRIAR   CUTHBERT. 

Who  are  they  ? 

FRIAR   JOHN. 

A  German  Prince  and  his  train, 
Who  arrived  here  just  before  the  rain. 
There  is  with  him  a  damsel  fair  to  see, 
As  slender  and  graceful  as  a  reed ! 
When  she  alighted  from  her  steed, 
It  seemed  like  a  blossom  blown  from  a  tree. 

FRIAR   CUTHBERT. 

None  of  your  pale-faced  girls  for  me  ! 
None  of  your  damsels  of  high  degree ! 

FRIAR   JOHN. 

Come,  old  fellow,  drink  down  to  your  peg ! 
But  do  not  drink  any  farther,  I  beg ! 

FRIAR  PAUL  sings. 

In  the  days  of  gold, 
The  days  of  old, 


The  Golden  Legend 

Crosier  of  wood 
And  bishop  of  gold  ! 

FRIAR   CUTHBERT. 

What  an  infernal  racket  and  riot ! 
Can  you  not  drink  your  wine  in  quiet  ? 
Why  fill  the  convent  with  such  scandals, 
As  if  we  were  so  many  drunken  Vandals  ? 

FRIAR   PAUL  continues. 

Now  we  have  changed 
That  law  so  good, 
To  crosier  of  gold 
And  bishop  of  wood  ! 

FRIAR   CUTHBERT. 

Well,  then,  since  you  are  in  the  mood 
To  give  your  noisy  humors  vent, 
Sing  and  howl  to  your  heart's  content ! 

CHORUS    OF    MONKS. 

Funde  vinum,  funde  ! 
Tanquam  sint  fluminis  undae. 
Nee  quaeras  unde, 
Sed  fundas  semper  abunde  ! 

FRIAR   JOHN. 

What  is  the  name  of  yonder  friar, 

With  an  eye  that  glows  like  a  coal  of  fire, 

And  such  a  black  mass  of  tangled  hair  ? 


132  The  Golden  Legend 

FRIAR    PAUL. 

He  who  is  sitting  there, 

With  a  rollicking, 

Devil  may  care, 

Free  and  easy  look  and  air, 

As  if  he  were  used  to  such  feasting  and  frolicking  ? 

FRIAR   JOHN. 

The  same. 

FRIAR   PAUL. 

He 's  a  stranger.     You  had  better  ask  his  name, 
And  where  he  is  going,  and  whence  he  came. 

FRIAR   JOHN. 

Hallo !  Sir  Friar ! 

FRIAR   PAUL. 

You  must  raise  your  voice  a  little  higher, 
He  does  not  seem  to  hear  what  you  say. 
Now,  try  again !  He  is  looking  this  way. 

FRIAR   JOHN. 

Hallo !     Sir  Friar, 

We  wish  to  inquire 

Whence  you  came,  and  where  you  are  going, 

And  anything  else  that  is  worth  the  knowing. 

So  be  so  good  as  to  open  your  head. 

LUCIFER. 

I  am  a  Frenchman  born  and  bred, 
Going  on  a  pilgrimage  to  Rome. 
My  home 


The  Golden  Legend  133 

Is  the  convent  of  St.  Gildas  de  Rhuys, 
Of  which,  very  like,  you  never  have  heard. 

MONKS. 
Never  a  word ! 

LUCIFER. 

You  must  know,  then,  it  is  in  the  diocese 

Called  the  Diocese  of  Vannes, 

In  the  province  of  Brittany. 

From  the  gray  rocks  of  Morbihan 

It  overlooks  the  angry  sea  ; 

The  very  sea-shore  where, 

In  his  great  despair, 

Abbot  Abelard  walked  to  and  fro, 

Filling  the  night  with  woe, 

And  wailing  aloud  to  the  merciless  seas 

The  name  of  his  sweet  Heloise  ! 

Whilst  overhead 

The  convent  windows  gleamed  as  red 

As  the  fiery  eyes  of  the  monks  within, 

Who  with  jovial  din 

Gave  themselves  up  to  all  kinds  of  sin  ! 

Ha  !  that  is  a  convent !  that  is  an  abbey ! 

Over  the  doors, 

None  of  your  death-heads  carved  in  wood, 

None  of  your  Saints  looking  pious  and  good, 

None  of  your  Patriarchs  old  and  shabby  ! 

But  the  heads  and  tusks  of  boars, 

And  the  cells 


134  The  Golden  Legend 

Hung  all  round  with  the  fells 

Of  the  fallow-deer. 

And  then  what  cheer  ! 

What  jolly,  fat  friars, 

Sitting  round  the  great,  roaring  fires, 

Roaring  louder  than  they, 

With  their  strong  wines, 

And  their  concubines, 

And  never  a  bell, 

With  its  swagger  and  swell, 

Calling  you  up  with  a  start  of  affright 

In  the  dead  of  night, 

To  send  you  grumbling  down  dark  stairs, 

To  mumble  your  prayers. 

But  the  cheery  crow 

Of  cocks  in  the  yard  below, 

After  daybreak,  an  hour  or  so, 

And  the  barking  of  deep-mouthed  hounds, 

These  are  the  sounds 

That,  instead  of  bells,  salute  the  ear. 

And  then  all  day 

Up  and  away 

Through  the  forest,  hunting  the  deer  ! 

Ah,  my  friends  !     I  'm  afraid  that  here 

You  are  a  little  too  pious,  a  little  too  tame, 

And  the  more  is  the  shame. 

'T  is  the  greatest  folly 

Not  to  be  jolly  ; 

That 's  what  I  think ! 


The  Golden  Legend  135 

Come,  drink,  drink, 
Drink,  and  die  game  ! 

MONKS. 
And  your  Abbot  What's-his-name  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Abelard ! 

MONKS. 

Did  he  drink  hard  ? 

LUCIFER. 
O,  no !     Not  he  ! 
He  was  a  dry  old  fellow, 

Without  juice  enough  to  get  thoroughly  mellow. 
There  he  stood, 
Lowering  at  us  in  sullen  mood, 
As  if  he  had  come  into  Brittany 
Just  to  reform  our  brotherhood  ! 
A  roar  of  laughter. 

But  you  see 

It  never  would  do ! 

For  some  of  us  knew  a  thing  or  two, 

In  the  Abbey  of  St.  Gildas  de  Rhuys ! 

For  instance,  the  great  ado 

With  old  Fulberfs  niece, 

The  young  and  lovely  Heloise. 

FRIAR  JOHN. 

Stop  there,  if  you  please, 

Till  we  drink  to  the  fair  Heloise. 


136  The  Goldm  Legend 

ALL,  drinking  and  shouting. 

Heloise !     Heloise  ! 

The  Chapel-bell  tolls. 

LUCIFER,  starting. 

What  is  that  bell  for  ?     Are  you  such  asses 
As  to  keep  up  the  fashion  of  midnight  masses  ? 

FRIAR    CUTHBERT. 

It  is  only  a  poor,  unfortunate  brother, 

Who  is  gifted  with  most  miraculous  powers 

Of  getting  up  at  all  sorts  of  hours, 

And,  by  way  of  penance  and  Christian  meekness, 

Of  creeping  silently  out  of  his  cell 

To  take  a  pull  at  that  hideous  bell ; 

So  that  all  the  monks  who  are  lying  awake 

May  murmur  some  kind  of  prayer  for  his  sake, 

And  adapted  to  his  peculiar  weakness  ! 

FRIAR   JOHN. 

From  frailty  and  fall  — 

ALL. 
Good  Lord,  deliver  us  all ! 

FRIAR   CUTHBERT. 

And  before  the  bell  for  matins  sounds, 

He  takes  his  lantern,  and  goes  the  rounds, 

Flashing  it  into  our  sleepy  eyes, 

Merely  to  say  it  is  time  to  arise. 

But  enough  of  that.     Go  on,  if  you  please, 

With  your  story  about  St.  Gildas  de  Rhuys. 


The  Golden  Legend  137 

LUCIFER. 

Well,  it  finally  came  to  pass 
That,  half  in  fun  and  half  in  malice, 
One  Sunday  at  Mass 
We  put  some  poison  into  the  chalice. 
But,  either  by  accident  or  design, 
Peter  Abelard  kept  away 
From  the  chapel  that  day, 
And  a  poor,  young  friar,  who  in  his  stead 
Drank  the  sacramental  wine, 
Fell  on  the  steps  of  the  altar,  dead  ! 
But  look !  do  you  see  at  the  window  there 
That  face,  with  a  look  of  grief  and  despair, 
That  ghastly  face,  as  of  one  in  pain  ? 

MONKS. 
Who  ?  where  ? 

LUCIFER. 
As  I  spoke,  it  vanished  away  again. 

FRIAR   CUTHBERT. 

It  is  that  nefarious 

Siebald  the  Refectorarius. 

That  fellow  is  always  playing  the  scout, 

Creeping  and  peeping  and  prowling  about ; 

And  then  he  regales 

The  Abbot  with  scandalous  tales. 

LUCIFER. 

A  spy  in  the  convent  ?     One  of  the  brothers 
Telling  scandalous  tales  of  the  others  ? 


138  The  Golden  Legend 

Out  upon  him,  the  lazy  loon  ! 

I  would  put  a  stop  to  that  pretty  soon, 

In  a  way  he  should  rue  it. 

MONKS. 
How  shall  we  do  it  ? 

LUCIFER. 

Do  you,  brother  Paul, 

Creep  under  the  window,  close  to  the  wall, 

And  open  it  suddenly  when  I  call. 

Then  seize  the  villain  by  the  hair, 

And  hold  him  there, 

And  punish  him  soundly,  once  for  all. 

FRIAR    CUTHBERT. 

As  St.  Dunstan  of  old, 

We  are  told, 

Once  caught  the  Devil  by  the  nose  ! 

LUCIFER. 

Ha !  ha !  that  story  is  very  clever, 

But  has  no  foundation  whatsoever. 

Quick !  for  I  see  his  face  again 

Glaring  in  at  the  window-pane  ; 

Now !  now !  and  do  not  spare  your  blows. 

FRIAR  PAUL  opens  the  window  suddenly,  and  seizes  SlEBALD. 
They  beat  him. 

FRIAR    SlEBALD. 

Help  !  help  !  are  you  going  to  slay  me  ? 


139 


FRIAR    PAUL. 

That  will  teach  you  again  to  betray  me  ! 

FRIAR   SIEBALD. 

Mercy !  mercy ! 

FRIAR   PAUL,   shouting  and  beating. 

Rumpas  bellorum  lorum, 
Vim  confer  amorum 
Morum  verorum  rorum 
Tu  plena  polorum ! 

LUCIFER. 

Who  stands  in  the  doorway  yonder, 
Stretching  out  his  trembling  hand, 
Just  as  Abelard  used  to  stand, 
The  flash  of  his  keen,  black  eyes 
Forerunning  the  thunder  ? 

THE   MONKS,   in  confusion. 

The  Abbot !  the  Abbot ! 

FRIAR   CUTHBERT. 

And  what  is  the  wonder ! 
He  seems  to  have  taken  you  by  surprise. 

FRIAR    FRANCIS. 

Hide  the  great  flagon 

From  the  eyes  of  the  dragon ! 

FRIAR   CUTHBERT. 

Pull  the  brown  hood  over  your  face  ! 
This  will  bring  us  into  disgrace  ! 


140  The  Golden  Legend 

ABBOT. 

What  means  this  revel  and  carouse  ? 

Is  this  a  tavern  and  drinking-house  ? 

Are  you  Christian  monks,  or  heathen  devils, 

To  pollute  this  convent  with  your  revels  ? 

Were  Peter  Damian  still  upon  earth, 

To  be  shocked  by  such  ungodly  mirth, 

He  would  write  your  names,  with  pen  of  gall, 

In  his  Book  of  Gomorrah,  one  and  all ! 

Away,  you  drunkards  !  to  your  cells, 

And  pray  till  you  hear  the  matin-bells ; 

You,  Brother  Francis,  and  you,  Brother  Paul ! 

And  as  a  penance  mark  each  prayer 

With  the  scourge  upon  your  shoulders  bare ; 

Nothing  atones  for  such  a  sin 

But  the  blood  that  follows  the  discipline. 

And  you,  Brother  Cuthbert,  come  with  me 

Alone  into  the  sacristy ; 

You,  who  should  be  a  guide  to  your  brothers, 

And  are  ten  times  worse  than  all  the  others, 

For  you  I  Ve  a  draught  that  has  long  been  brewing, 

You  shall  do  a  penance  worth  the  doing ! 

Away  to  your  prayers,  then,  one  and  all ! 

I  wonder  the  very  convent  wall 

Does  not  crumble  and  crush  you  in  its  fall ! 


The  Golden  Legend  141 


THE  NEIGHBORING  NUNNERY 

The  ABBESS  IRMINGARD  sitting  with  ELSIE  in  the  moonlight. 
IRMINGARD. 

THE  night  is  silent,  the  wind  is  still, 

The  moon  is  looking  from  yonder  hill 

Down  upon  convent,  and  grove,  and  garden  ; 

The  clouds  have  passed  away  from  her  face, 

Leaving  behind  them  no  sorrowful  trace, 

Only  the  tender  and  quiet  grace 

Of  one,  whose  heart  has  been  healed  with  pardon  ! 

And  such  am  I.     My  soul  within 

Was  dark  with  passion  and  soiled  with  sin. 

But  now  its  wounds  are  healed  again  ; 

Gone  are  the  anguish,  the  terror,  and  pain ; 

For  across  that  desolate  land  of  woe, 

O'er  whose  burning  sands  I  was  forced  to  go, 

A  wind  from  heaven  began  to  blow ; 

And  all  my  being  trembled  and  shook, 

As  the  leaves  of  the  tree,  or  the  grass  of  the  field, 

And  I  was  healed,  as  the  sick  are  healed, 

When  fanned  by  the  leaves  of  the  Holy  Book ! 

As  thou  sittest  in  the  moonlight  there, 
Its  glory  flooding  thy  golden  hair, 


142  The  Golden  Legend 

And  the  only  darkness  that  which  lies 

In  the  haunted  chambers  of  thine  eyes, 

I  feel  my  soul  drawn  unto  thee, 

Strangely,  and  strongly,  and  more  and  more, 

As  to  one  I  have  known  and  loved  before  ; 

For  every  soul  is  akin  to  me 

That  dwells  in  the  land  of  mystery ! 

I  am  the  Lady  Irmingard, 

Born  of  a  noble  race  and  name  ! 

Many  a  wandering  Suabian  bard, 

Whose  life  was  dreary,  and  bleak,  and  hard, 

Has  found  through  me  the  way  to  fame. 

Brief  and  bright  were  those  days,  and  the  night 

Which  followed  was  full  of  a  lurid  light 

Love,  that  of  every  woman's  heart 

Will  have  the  whole,  and  not  a  part, 

That  is  to  her,  in  Nature's  plan, 

More  than  ambition  is  to  man, 

Her  light,  her  life,  her  very  breath, 

With  no  alternative  but  death, 

Found  me  a  maiden  soft  and  young, 

Just  from  the  convent's  cloistered  school, 

And  seated  on  my  lowly  stool, 

Attentive  while  the  minstrels  sung. 

Gallant,  graceful,  gentle,  tall, 
Fairest,  noblest,  best  of  all, 
Was  Walter  of  the  Vogelweid ; 
And,  whatsoever  may  betide, 


The  Golden  Legend  143 

Still  I  think  of  him  with  pride  ! 

His  song  was  of  the  summer-time, 

The  very  birds  sang  in  his  rhyme  ; 

The  sunshine,  the  delicious  air, 

The  fragrance  of  the  flowers,  were  there  ; 

And  I  grew  restless  as  I  heard, 

Restless  and  buoyant  as  a  bird, 

Down  soft,  aerial  currents  sailing, 

O'er  blossomed  orchards,  and  fields  in  bloom, 

And  through  the  momentary  gloom 

Of  shadows  o'er  the  landscape  trailing, 

Yielding  and  borne  I  knew  not  where, 

But  feeling  resistance  unavailing. 

And  thus,  unnoticed  and  apart, 
And  more  by  accident  than  choice, 
I  listened  to  that  single  voice 
Until  the  chambers  of  my  heart 
Were  filled  with  it  by  night  and  day. 
One  night,  —  it  was  a  night  in  May,  — 
Within  the  garden,  unawares, 
Under  the  blossoms  in  the  gloom, 
I  heard  it  utter  my  own  name 
With  protestations  and  wild  prayers  ; 
And  it  rang  through  me,  and  became 
Like  the  archangel's  trump  of  doom, 
Which  the  soul  hears,  and  must  obey ; 
And  mine  arose  as  from  a  tomb. 
My  former  life  now  seemed  to  me 


144  The  Golden  Legend 

Such  as  hereafter  death  may  be, 
When  in  the  great  Eternity 
We  shall  awake  and  find  it  day. 

It  was  a  dream,  and  would  not  stay  ; 

A  dream,  that  in  a  single  night 

Faded  and  vanished  out  of  sight. 

My  father's  anger  followed  fast 

This  passion,  as  a  freshening  blast 

Seeks  out  and  fans  the  fire,  whose  rage 

It  may  increase,  but  not  assuage. 

And  he  exclaimed  :   "  No  wandering  bard 

Shall  win  thy  hand,  O  Irmingard  ! 

For  which  Prince  Henry  of  Hoheneck 

By  messenger  and  letter  sues." 

Gently,  but  firmly,  I  replied  : 
"  Henry  of  Hoheneck  I  discard  ! 
.Never  the  hand  of  Irmingard 
Shall  lie  in  his  as  the  hand  of  a  bride  ! " 
This  said  I,  Walter,  for  thy  sake ; 
This  said  I,  for  I  could  not  choose. 
After  a  pause,  my  father  spake 
In  that  cold  and  deliberate  tone 
Which  turns  the  hearer  into  stone, 
And  seems  itself  the  act  to  be 
That  follows  with  such  dread  certainty  ; 
"  This,  or  the  cloister  and  the  veil !  " 
No  other  words  than  these  he  said, 


The  Golden  Legend  145 

But  they  were  like  a  funeral  wail ; 
My  life  was  ended,  my  heart  was  dead. 

That  night  from  the  castle-gate  went  down, 
With  silent,  slow,  and  stealthy  pace, 
Two  shadows,  mounted  on  shadowy  steeds, 
Taking  the  narrow  path  that  leads 
Into  the  forest  dense  and  brown. 
In  the  leafy  darkness  of  the  place, 
One  could  not  distinguish  form  nor  face, 
Only  a  bulk  without  a  shape, 
A  darker  shadow  in  the  shade  ; 
One  scarce  could  say  it  moved  or  stayed. 
Thus  it  was  we  made  our  escape  ! 
A  foaming  brook,  with  many  a  bound, 
Followed  us  like  a  playful  hound ; 
Then  leaped  before  us,  and  in  the  hollow 
Paused,  and  waited  for  us  to  follow, 
And  seemed  impatient,  and  afraid 
That  our  tardy  flight  should  be  betrayed 
By  the  sound  our  horses'  hoof-beats  made. 
And  when  we  reached  the  plain  below, 
We  paused  a  moment  and  drew  rein 
To  look  back  at  the  castle  again  ; 
And  we  saw  the  windows  all  aglow 
With  lights,  that  were  passing  to  and  fro ; 
Our  hearts  with  terror  ceased  to  beat ; 
The  brook  crept  silent  to  our  feet ; 
We  knew  what  most  we  feared  to  know. 
VOL.  vi.  7  j 


146  The  Golden  Legend 

Then  suddenly  horns  began  to  blow ; 
And  we  heard  a  shout,  and  a  heavy  tramp, 
And  our  horses  snorted  in  the  damp 
Night-air  of  the  meadows  green  and  wide, 
And  in  a  moment,  side  by  side, 
So  close,  they  must  have  seemed  but  one, 
The  shadows  across  the  moonlight  run, 
And  another  came,  and  swept  behind, 
Like  the  shadow  of  clouds  before  the  wind ! 

How  I  remember  that  breathless  flight 
Across  the  moors,  in  the  summer  night ! 
How  under  our  feet  the  long,  white  road 
Backward  like  a  river  flowed, 
Sweeping  with  it  fences  and  hedges, 
Whilst  farther  away,  and  overhead, 
Paler  than  I,  with  fear  and  dread, 
The  moon  fled  with  us,  as  we  fled 
Along  the  forest's  jagged  edges  ! 

All  this  I  can  remember  well ; 

But  of  what  afterwards  befell 

I  nothing  further  can  recall 

Than  a  blind,  desperate,  headlong  fall ; 

The  rest  is  a  blank  and  darkness  all. 

When  I  awoke  out  of  this  swoon, 

The  sun  was  shining,  not  the  moon, 

Making  a  cross  upon  the  wall 

With  the  bars  of  my  windows  narrow  and  tall ; 


The  Golden  Legend  147 

And  I  prayed  to  it,  as  I  had  been  wont  to  pray, 

From  early  childhood,  day  by  day, 

Each  morning,  as  in  bed  I  lay ! 

I  was  lying  again  in  my  own  room ! 

And  I  thanked  God,  in  my  fever  and  pain, 

That  those  shadows  on  the  midnight  plain 

Were  gone,  and  could  not  come  again ! 

I  struggled  no  longer  with  my  doom ! 

This  happened  many  years  ago. 
I  left  my  father's  home  to  come 
Like  Catherine  to  her  martyrdom, 
For  blindly  I  esteemed  it  so. 
And  when  I  heard  the  convent  door 
Behind  me  close,  to  ope  no  more, 
I  felt  it  smite  me  like  a  blow. 
Through  all  my  limbs  a  shudder  ran, 
And  on  my  bruised  spirit  fell 
The  dampness  of  my  narrow  cell 
As  night-air  on  a  wounded  man, 
Giving  intolerable  pain. 

But  now  a  better  life  began. 

I  felt  the  agony  decrease 

By  slow  degrees,  then  wholly  cease, 

Ending  in  perfect  rest  and  peace  ! 

It  was  not  apathy,  nor  dulness, 

That  weighed  and  pressed  upon  my  brain, 

But  the  same  passion  I  had  given 


148  The  Golden  Legend 

To  earth  before,  now  turned  to  heaven 
With  all  its  overflowing  fulness. 

Alas !  the  world  is  full  of  peril ! 

The  path  that  runs  through  the  fairest  meads, 

On  the  sunniest  side  of  the  valley,  leads 

Into  a  region  bleak  and  sterile  ! 

Alike  in  the  high-born  and  the  lowly, 

The  will  is  feeble,  and  passion  strong. 

We  cannot  sever  right  from  wrong ; 

Some  falsehood  mingles  with  all  truth ; 

Nor  is  it  strange  the  heart  of  youth 

Should  waver  and  comprehend  but  slowly 

The  things  that  are  holy  and  unholy ! 

But  in  this  sacred,  calm  retreat, 

We  are  all  well  and  safely  shielded 

From  winds  that  blow,  and  waves  that  beat, 

From  the  cold,  and  rain,  and  blighting  heat, 

To  which  the  strongest  hearts  have  yielded. 

Here  we  stand  as  the  Virgins  Seven, 

For  our  celestial  bridegroom  yearning ; 

Our  hearts  are  lamps  forever  burning, 

With  a  steady  and  unwavering  flame, 

Pointing  upward,  forever  the  same, 

Steadily  upward  toward  the  heaven  ! 

The  moon  is  hidden  behind  a  cloud  ; 
A  sudden  darkness  fills  the  room, 
And  thy  deep  eyes,  amid  the  gloom, 


The  Golden  Legend  149 

Shine  like  jewels  in  a  shroud. 

On  the  leaves  is  a  sound  of  falling  rain ; 

A  bird,  awakened  in  its  nest, 

Gives  a  faint  twitter  of  unrest, 

Then  smooths  its  plumes  and  sleeps  again. 

No  other  sounds  than  these  I  hear ; 

The  hour  of  midnight  must  be  near. 

Thou  art  o'erspent  with  the  day's  fatigue 

Of  riding  many  a  dusty  league  ; 

Sink,  then,  gently  to  thy  slumber ; 

Me  so  many  cares  encumber, 

So  many  ghosts,  and  forms  of  fright, 

Have  started  from  their  graves  to-night, 

They  have  driven  sleep  from  mine  eyes  away : 

I  will  go  down  to  the  chapel  and  pray. 


150  The  Golden  Legend 


V. 


A  COVERED  BRIDGE  AT  LUCERNE 
PRINCE    HENRY. 

GOD'S  blessing  on  the  architects  who  build 
The  bridges  o'er  swift  rivers  and  abysses 
Before  impassable  to  human  feet, 
No  less  than  on  the  builders  of  cathedrals, 
Whose  massive  walls  are  bridges  thrown  across 
The  dark  and  terrible  abyss  of  Death. 
Well  has  the  name  of  Pontifex  been  given 
Unto  the  Church's  head,  as  the  chief  builder 
And  architect  of  the  invisible  bridge 
That  leads  from  earth  to  heaven. 

ELSIE. 

How  dark  it  grows ! 
What  are  these  paintings  on  the  walls  around  us  ? 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

The  Dance  Macaber ! 

ELSIE. 

What? 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

The  Dance  of  Death ! 
All  that  go  to  and  fro  must  look  upon  it, 


The  Golden  Legend  151 

Mindful  of  what  they  shall  be,  while  beneath, 
Among  the  wooden  piles,  the  turbulent  river 
Rushes,  impetuous  as  the  river  of  life, 
With  dimpling  eddies,  ever  green  and  bright, 
Save  where  the  shadow  of  this  bridge  falls  on  it. 

ELSIE. 
O  yes  !  I  see  it  now ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

The  grim  musician 

Leads  all  men  through  the  mazes  of  that  dance, 
To  different  sounds  in  different  measures  moving ; 
Sometimes  he  plays  a  lute,  sometimes  a  drum, 
To  tempt  or  terrify. 

ELSIE. 
What  is  this  picture  ? 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

It  is  a  young  man  singing  to  a  nun, 
Who  kneels  at  her  devotions,  but  in  kneeling 
Turns  round  to  look  at  him ;  and  Death,  mean 
while, 
Is  putting  out  the  candles  on  the  altar ! 

ELSIE. 

Ah,  what  a  pity  't  is  that  she  should  listen 
Unto  such  songs,  when  in  her  orisons 
She  might  have  heard  in  heaven  the  angels  sing 
ing! 


152  The  Golden  Legend 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Here  he  has  stolen  a  jester's  cap  and  bells, 
And  dances  with  the  Queen. 

ELSIE. 

A  foolish  jest ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

And  here  the  heart  of  the  new-wedded  wife, 
Coming  from  church  with  her  beloved  lord, 
He  startles  with  the  rattle  of  his  drum. 

ELSIE. 

Ah,  that  is  sad !     And  yet  perhaps  't  is  best 
That  she  should  die,  with  all  the  sunshine  on  her, 
And  all  the  benedictions  of  the  morning, 
Before  this  affluence  of  golden  light 
Shall  fade  into  a  cold  and  clouded  gray, 
Then  into  darkness ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Under  it  is  written, 
"  Nothing  but  death  shall  separate  thee  and  me  !  " 

ELSIE. 
And  what  is  this,  that  follows  close  upon  it  ? 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Death,  playing  on  a  dulcimer.     Behind  him, 

A  poor  old  woman,  with  a  rosary, 

Follows  the  sound,  and  seems  to  wish  her  feet 

Were  swifter  to  o'ertake  him.     Underneath, 

The  inscription  reads,  "  Better  is  Death  than  Life." 


The  Golden  Legend  153 

ELSIE. 

Better  is  Death  than  Life  !     Ah  yes  !  to  thousands 

Death  plays  upon  a  dulcimer,  and  sings 

That  song  of  consolation,  till  the  air 

Rings  with  it,  and  they  cannot  choose  but  follow 

Whither  he  leads.     And  not  the  old  alone, 

But  the  young  also  hear  it,  and  are  still. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Yes,  in  their  sadder  moments.     'T  is  the  sound 
Of  their  own  hearts  they  hear,  half  full  of  tears, 
Which  are  like  crystal  cups,  half  filled  with  water, 
Responding  to  the  pressure  of  a  finger 
With  music  sweet  and  low  and  melancholy. 
Let  us  go  forward,  and  no  longer  stay 
In  this  great  picture-gallery  of  Death ! 
I  hate  it !  ay,  the  very  thought  of  it ! 

ELSIE. 
Why  is  it  hateful  to  you  ? 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

For  the  reason 

That  life,  and  all  that  speaks  of  life,  is  lovely, 
And  death,  and  all  that  speaks  of  death,  is  hateful. 

ELSIE. 

The  grave  itself  is  but  a  covered  bridge, 
Leading  from  light  to  light,  through  a  brief  dark 
ness  ! 

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Built  this  at  last,  with  a  single  arch, 

Under  which,  on  its  endless  march, 

Runs  the  river,  white  with  foam, 

Like  a  thread  through  the  eye  of  a  needle. 

And  the  Devil  promised  to  let  it  stand, 

Under  compact  and  condition 

That  the  first  living  thing  which  crossed 

Should  be  surrendered  into  his  hand, 

And  be  beyond  redemption  lost. 

LUCIFER,  tender  fie  bridge. 
Ha!  ha!  perdition! 

GUIDE. 

At  length,  the  bridge  being  all  completed, 

The  Abbot,  standing  at  its  head, 

Threw  across  it  a  loaf  of  bread, 

Which  a  hungry  dog  sprang  after, 

And  the  rocks  re-echoed  with  the  peals  of  laughter 

To  see  the  Devil  thus  defeated ! 

Tkty  fass  on. 

LUCIFER,  under  tke  bridge. 
Ha!  ha!  defeated! 
For  journeys  and  for  crimes  like  this 
I  let  the  bridge  stand  o'er  the  abyss ! 


TJie  Golden  Legend  157 


THE  ST.    GOTHARD  PASS 
PRIXCE   HEXRY. 

THIS  is  the  highest  point     Two  ways  the  rivers 
Leap  down  to  different  seas,  and  as  they  roll 
Grow  deep  and  still,  and  their  majestic  presence 
Becomes  a  benefaction  to  the  towns 
They  visit,  wandering  silently  among  them, 
Like  patriarchs  old  among  their  shining  tents. 

ELSIE. 

How  bleak  and  bare  it  is !     Nothing  but  mosses 
Grow  on  these  rocks. 

PRIXCE   HEXRY. 

Yet  are  they  not  forgotten 
Beneficent  Nature  sends  the  mists  to  feed  them. 

ELSIE. 

See  yonder  little  cloud,  that,  borne  aloft 
So  tenderly  by  the  wind,  floats  fast  away 
Over  the  snowy  peaks !  It  seems  to  me 
The  body  of  St.  Catherine,  borne  by  angels ! 

PRIXCE   HEXRY. 

Thou  art  St  Catherine,  and  invisible  angels 
Bear  thee  across  these  chasms  and  precipices, 
Lest  thou  shouldst  dash  thy  feet  against  a  stone ! 


158  The  Golden  Legend 

ELSIE. 

Would  I  were  borne  unto  my  grave,  as  she  was, 
Upon  angelic  shoulders  !     Even  now 
I  seem  uplifted  by  them,  light  as  air ! 
What  sound  is  that  ? 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

The  tumbling  avalanches ! 

ELSIE. 
How  awful,  yet  how  beautiful ! 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

These  are 

The  voices  of  the  mountains !     Thus  they  ope 
Their  snowy  lips,  and  speak  unto  each  other, 
In  the  primeval  language,  lost  to  man. 

ELSIE. 
What  land  is  this  that  spreads  itself  beneath  us  ? 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

Italy !     Italy ! 

ELSIE. 

Land  of  the  Madonna ! 
How  beautiful  it  is  !  It  seems  a  garden 
Of  Paradise ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Nay,  of  Gethsemane 

To  thee  and  me,  of  passion  and  of  prayer  ! 
Yet  once  of  Paradise.     Long  years  ago 


The  Golden  Legend  159 

I  wandered  as  a  youth  among  its  bowers, 
And  never  from  my  heart  has  faded  quite 
Its  memory,  that,  like  a  summer  sunset, 
Encircles  with  a  ring  of  purple  light 
All  the  horizon  of  my  youth. 

GUIDE. 

O  friends  ! 

The  days  are  short,  the  way  before  us  long ; 
We  must  not  linger,  if  we  think  to  reach 
The  inn  at  Belinzona  before  vespers ! 

They  pass  on. 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  ALPS 

A  halt  under  the  trees  at  noon. 
PRINCE   HENRY. 

HERE  let  us  pause  a  moment  in  the  trembling 
Shadow  and  sunshine  of  the  roadside  trees, 
And,  our  tired  horses  in  a  group  assembling, 
Inhale  long  draughts  of  this  delicious  breeze. 
Our  fleeter  steeds  have  distanced  our  attendants  ; 
They  lag  behind  us  with  a  slower  pace  ; 
We  will  await  them  under  the  green  pendants 
Of  the  great  willows  in  this  shady  place. 
Ho,  Barbarossa  !  how  thy  mottled  haunches 
Sweat  with  this  canter  over  hill  and  glade  ! 


160  The  Golden  Legend 

Stand  still,  and  let  these  overhanging  branches 
Fan  thy  hot  sides  and  comfort  thee  with  shade ! 

ELSIE. 

What  a  delightful  landscape  spreads  before  us, 
Marked  with  a  whitewashed  cottage  here  and  there  ! 
And,  in  luxuriant  garlands  drooping  o'er  us, 
Blossoms  of  grape-vines  scent  the  sunny  air. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Hark !  what  sweet  sounds  are  those,  whose  accents 

holy 
Fill  the  warm  noon  with  music  sad  and  sweet ! 

ELSIE. 

It  is  a  band  of  pilgrims,  moving  slowly 
On  their  long  journey,  with  uncovered  feet. 

PILGRIMS,  chanting  the  Hymn  of  St.  Hildebert. 
Me  receptet  Sion  ilia, 
Sion  David,  urbs  tranquilla, 
Cujus  faber  auctor  lucis, 
Cujus  portae  lignum  crucis, 
Cujus  claves  lingua  Petri, 
Cujus  cives  semper  laeti, 
Cujus  muri  lapis  vivus, 
Cujus  custos  Rex  festivus  ! 

LUCIFER,  as  a  Friar  in  the  procession. 
Here  am  I,  too,  in  the  pious  band, 
In  the  garb  of  a  barefooted  Carmelite  dressed  ! 
The  soles  of  my  feet  are  as  hard  and  tanned 


The  Golden  Legend  161 

As  the  conscience  of  old  Pope  Hildebrand, 

The  Holy  Satan,  who  made  the  wives 

Of  the  bishops  lead  such  shameful  lives. 

All  day  long  I  beat  my  breast, 

And  chant  with  a  most  particular  zest 

The  Latin  hymns,  which  I  understand 

Quite  as  well,  I  think,  as  the  rest. 

And  at  night  such  lodging  in  barns  and  sheds, 

Such  a  hurly-burly  in  country  inns, 

Such  a  clatter  of  tongues  in  empty  heads, 

Such  a  helter-skelter  of  prayers  and  sins  ! 

Of  all  the  contrivances  of  the  time 

For  sowing  broadcast  the  seeds  of  crime, 

There  is  none  so  pleasing  to  me  and  mine 

As  a  pilgrimage  to  some  far-off  shrine  ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

If  from  the  outward  man  we  judge  the  inner, 
And  cleanliness  is  godliness,  I  fear 
A  hopeless  reprobate,  a  hardened  sinner, 
Must  be  that  Carmelite  now  passing  near. 

LUCIFER. 

There  is  my  German  Prince  again, 
Thus  far  on  his  journey  to  Salern, 
And  the  lovesick  girl,  whose  heated  brain 
Is  sowing  the  cloud  to  reap  the  rain  ; 
But  it 's  a  long  road  that  has  no  turn ! 
Let  them  quietly  hold  their  way, 
I  have  also  a  part  in  the  play. 

VOL.  VI.  K 


1 62  The  Golden  Legend 

But  first  I  must  act  to  my  heart's  content 

This  mummery  and  this  merriment, 

And  drive  this  motley  flock  of  sheep 

Into  the  fold,  where  drink  and  sleep 

The  jolly  old  friars  of  Benevent. 

Of  a  truth,  it  often  provokes  me  to  laugh 

To  see  these  beggars  hobble  along, 

Lamed  and  maimed,  and  fed  upon  chaff, 

Chanting  their  wonderful  piff  and  paff, 

And,  to  make  up  for  not  understanding  the  song, 

Singing  it  fiercely,  and  wild,  and  strong ! 

Were  it  not  for  my  magic  garters  and  staff, 

And  the  goblets  of  goodly  wine  I  quaff, 

And  the  mischief  I  make  in  the  idle  throng, 

I  should  not  continue  the  business  long. 

PILGRIMS,    chanting. 
In  hac  urbe,  lux  solennis, 
Ver  aeternum,  pax  perennis  ; 
In  hac  odor  implens  caelos, 
In  hac  semper  festum  melos ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Do  you  observe  that  monk  among  the  train, 
Who  pours  from  his  great  throat  the  roaring  bass, 
As  a  cathedral  spout  pours  out  the  rain, 
And  this  way  turns  his  rubicund,  round  face  ? 

ELSIE. 

It  is  the  same  who,  on  the  Strasburg  square, 
Preached  to  the  people  in  the  open  air. 


The  Golden  Legend  163 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

And  he  has  crossed  o'er  mountain,  field,  and  fell, 
On  that  good  steed,  that  seems  to  bear  him  well, 
The  hackney  of  the  Friars  of  Orders  Gray, 
His  own  stout  legs  !     He,  too,  was  in  the  play, 
Both  as  King  Herod  and  Ben  Israel. 
Good  morrow,  Friar ! 

FRIAR   CUTHBERT. 

Good  morrow,  noble  Sir  ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

I  speak  in  German,  for,  unless  I  err, 
You  are  a  German. 

FRIAR   CUTHBERT. 

I  cannot  gainsay  you. 
But  by  what  instinct,  or  what  secret  sign, 
Meeting  me  here,  do  you  straightway  divine 
That  northward  of  the  Alps  my  country  lies  ? 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Your  accent,  like  St.  Peter's,  would  betray  you, 
Did  not  your  yellow  beard  and  your  blue  eyes. 
Moreover,  we  have  seen  your  face  before, 
And  heard  you  preach  at  the  Cathedral  door 
On  Easter  Sunday,  in  the  Strasburg  square. 
We  were  among  the  crowd  that  gathered  there, 
And  saw  you  play  the  Rabbi  with  great  skill, 
As  if,  by  leaning  o'er  so  many  years 
To  walk  with  little  children,  your  own  will 


164  The  Golden  Legend 

Had  caught  a  childish  attitude  from  theirs, 
A  kind  of  stooping  in  its  form  and  gait, 
And  could  no  longer  stand  erect  and  straight. 
Whence  come  you  now  ? 

FRIAR   CUTHBERT. 

From  the  old  monastery 
Of  Hirschau,  in  the  forest ;  being  sent 
Upon  a  pilgrimage  to  Benevent, 
To  see  the  image  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 
That  moves  its  holy  eyes,  and  sometimes  speaks, 
And  lets  the  piteous  tears  run  down  its  cheeks, 
To  touch  the  hearts  of  the  impenitent. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

O,  had  I  faith,  as  in  the  days  gone  by, 
That  knew  no  doubt,  and  feared  no  mystery ! 

LUCIFER,    at  a  distance. 
Ho,  Cuthbert !     Friar  Cuthbert ! 

FRIAR   CUTHBERT. 

Farewell,  Prince ! 
I  cannot  stay  to  argue  and  convince. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

This  is  indeed  the  blessed  Mary's  land, 

Virgin  and  Mother  of  our  dear  Redeemer ! 

All  hearts  are  touched  and  softened  at  her  name  ; 

Alike  the  bandit,  with  the  bloody  hand, 

The  priest,  the  prince,  the  scholar,  and  the  peasant, 

The  man  of  deeds,  the  visionary  dreamer, 


The  Golden  Legend  165 

Pay  homage  to  her  as  one  ever  present ! 

And  even  as  children,  who  have  much  offended 

A  too  indulgent  father,  in  great  shame, 

Penitent,  and  yet  not  daring  unattended 

To  go  into  his  presence,  at  the  gate 

Speak  with  their  sister,  and  confiding  wait 

Till  she  goes  in  before  and  intercedes ; 

So  men,  repenting  of  their  evil  deeds, 

And  yet  not  venturing  rashly  to  draw  near 

With  their  requests  an  angry  father's  ear, 

Offer  to  her  their  prayers  and  their  confession, 

And  she  for  them  in  heaven  makes  intercession. 

And  if  our  Faith  had  given  us  nothing  more 

Than  this  example  of  all  womanhood, 

So  mild,  so  merciful,  so  strong,  so  good, 

So  patient,  peaceful,  loyal,  loving,  pure, 

This  were  enough  to  prove  it  higher  and  truer 

Than  all  the  creeds  the  world  had  known  before. 

PILGRIMS,  chanting  afar  off. 
Urbs  ccelestis,  urbs  beata, 
Supra  petram  collocata, 
Urbs  in  portu  satis  tuto 
De  longinquo  te  saluto, 
Te  saluto,  te  suspiro, 
Te  affecto,  te  require  ! 


1 66  The  Golden  Legend 


THE   INN   AT   GENOA 

A  terrace  overlooking  the  sea.    Night. 
PRINCE   HENRY. 

IT  is  the  sea,  it  is  the  sea, 

In  all  its  vague  immensity, 

Fading  and  darkening  in  the  distance  ! 

Silent,  majestical,  and  slow, 

The  white  ships  haunt  it  to  and  fro, 

With  all  their  ghostly  sails  unfurled, 

As  phantoms  from  another  world 

Haunt  the  dim  confines  of  existence ! 

But  ah !  how  few  can  comprehend 

Their  signals,  or  to  what  good  end 

From  land  to  land  they  come  and  go  ! 

Upon  a  sea  more  vast  and  dark 

The  spirits  of  the  dead  embark, 

All  voyaging  to  unknown  coasts. 

We  wave  our  farewells  from  the  shore, 

And  they  depart,  and  come  no  more, 

Or  come  as  phantoms  and  as  ghosts. 

Above  the  darksome  sea  of  death 
Looms  the  great  life  that  is  to  be, 
A  land  of  cloud  and  mystery, 
A  dim  mirage,  with  shapes  of  men 


The  Golden  Legend  167 

Long  dead,  and  passed  beyond  our  ken. 
Awe-struck  we  gaze,  and  hold  our  breath 
Till  the  fair  pageant  vanisheth, 
Leaving  us  in  perplexity, 
And  doubtful  whether  it  has  been 
A  vision  of  the  world  unseen, 
Or  a  bright  image  of  our  own 
Against  the  sky  in  vapors  thrown. 

LUCIFER,  singing  from  the  sea. 
Thou  didst  not  make  it,  thou  canst  not  mend  it, 
But  thou  hast  the  power  to  end  it ! 
The  sea  is  silent,  the  sea  is  discreet, 
Deep  it  lies  at  thy  very  feet ; 
There  is  no  confessor  like  unto  Death ! 
Thou  canst  not  see  him,  but  he  is  near  ; 
Thou  needest  not  whisper  above  thy  breath, 
And  he  will  hear ; 
He  will  answer  the  questions, 
The  vague  surmises  and  suggestions, 
That  fill  thy  soul  with  doubt  and  fear ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

The  fisherman,  who  lies  afloat, 
With  shadowy  sail,  in  yonder  boat, 
Is  singing  softly  to  the  Night ! 
But  do  I  comprehend  aright 
The  meaning  of  the  words  he  sung 
So  sweetly  in  his  native  tongue  ? 
Ah  yes !  the  sea  is  still  and  deep. 


1 68  The  Golden  Legend 

All  things  within  its  bosom  sleep  ! 
A  single  step,  and  all  is  o'er ; 
A  plunge,  a  bubble,  and  no  more  ; 
And  thou,  dear  Elsie,  wilt  be  free 
From  martyrdom  and  agony. 

ELSIE,  coming  from  her  chamber  upon  the  terrace. 
The  night  is  calm  and  cloudless, 
And  still  as  still  can  be, 
And  the  stars  come  forth  to  listen 
To  the  music  of  the  sea. 
They  gather,  and  gather,  and  gather, 
Until  they  crowd  the  sky, 
And  listen,  in  breathless  silence, 
To  the  solemn  litany. 
It  begins  in  rocky  caverns, 
As  a  voice  that  chants  alone 
To  the  pedals  of  the  organ 
In  monotonous  undertone ; 
And  anon  from  shelving  beaches, 
And  shallow  sands  beyond, 
In  snow-white  robes  uprising 
The  ghostly  choirs  respond. 
And  sadly  and  unceasing 
The  mournful  voice  sings  on, 
And  the  snow-white  choirs  still  answer 
Christe  eleison ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Angel  of  God  !  thy  finer  sense  perceives 


The  Golden  Legend  169 

Celestial  and  perpetual  harmonies ! 

Thy  purer  soul,  that  trembles  and  believes, 

Hears  the  archangel's  trumpet  in  the  breeze, 

And  where  the  forest  rolls,  or  ocean  heaves, 

Cecilia's  organ  sounding  in  the  seas, 

And  tongues  of  prophets  speaking  in  the  leaves. 

But  I  hear  discord  only  and  despair, 

And  whispers  as  of  demons  in  the  air ! 


AT  SEA 
IL   PADRONE. 

THE  wind  upon  our  quarter  lies, 
And  on  before  the  freshening  gale, 
That  fills  the  snow-white  lateen  sail, 
Swiftly  our  light  felucca  flies. 
Around,  the  billows  burst  and  foam  ; 
They  lift  her  o'er  the  sunken  rock, 
They  beat  her  sides  with  many  a  shock, 
And  then  upon  their  flowing  dome 
They  poise  her,  like  a  weathercock ! 
Between  us  and  the  western  skies 
The  hills  of  Corsica  arise ; 
Eastward,  in  yonder  long,  blue  line, 
The  summits  of  the  Apennine, 
And  southward,  and  still  far  away, 
Salerno,  on  its  sunny  bay. 
You  cannot  see  it,  where  it  lies. 
VOL.  vi.  8 


I/O  The  Golden  Legend 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Ah,  would  that  never  more  mine  eyes 
Might  see  its  towers  by  night  or  day ! 

ELSIE. 

Behind  us,  dark  and  awfully, 
There  comes  a  cloud  out  of  the  sea, 
That  bears  the  form  of  a  hunted  deer, 
With  hide  of  brown,  and  hoofs  of  black, 
And  antlers  laid  upon  its  back, 
And  fleeing  fast  and  wild  with  fear, 
As  if  the  hounds  were  on  its  track ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Lo !  while  we  gaze,  it  breaks  and  falls 
In  shapeless  masses,  like  the  walls 
Of  a  burnt  city.     Broad  and  red 
The  fires  of  the  descending  sun 
Glare  through  the  windows,  and  o'erhead, 
Athwart  the  vapors,  dense  and  dun, 
Long  shafts  of  silvery  light  arise, 
Like  rafters  that  support  the  skies  ! 

ELSIE. 

See !  from  its  summit  the  lurid  levin 
Flashes  downward  without  warning, 
As  Lucifer,  son  of  the  morning, 
Fell  from  the  battlements  of  heaven ! 

IL   PADRONE. 

I  must  entreat  you,  friends,  below  ! 
The  angry  storm  begins  to  blow, 


The  Golden  Legend  171 

For  the  weather  changes  with  the  moon. 

All  this  morning,  until  noon, 

We  had  baffling  winds,  and  sudden  flaws 

Struck  the  sea  with  their  cat's-paws. 

Only  a  little  hour  ago 

I  was  whistling  to  Saint  Antonio 

For  a  capful  of  wind  to  fill  our  sail, 

And  instead  of  a  breeze  he  has  sent  a  gale. 

Last  night  I  saw  Saint  Elmo's  stars, 

With  their  glimmering  lanterns,  all  at  play 

On  the  tops  of  the  masts  and  the  tips  of  the  spars, 

And  I  knew  we  should  have  foul  weather  to-day. 

Cheerly,  my  hearties  !  yo  heave  ho  ! 

Brail  up  the  mainsail,  and  let  her  go 

As  the  winds  will  and  Saint  Antonio ! 

Do  you  see  that  Livornese  felucca, 
That  vessel  to  the  windward  yonder, 
Running  with  her  gunwale  under  ? 
I  was  looking  when  the  wind  o'ertook  her. 
She  had  all  set  sail,  and  the  only  wonder 
Is,  that  at  once  the  strength  of  the  blast 
Did  not  carry  away  her  mast. 
She  is  a  galley  of  the  Gran  Duca, 
That,  through  the  fear  of  the  Algerines, 
Convoys  those  lazy  brigantines, 
Laden  with  wine  and  oil  from  Lucca. 
Now  all  is  ready,  high  and  low ; 
Blow,  blow,  good  Saint  Antonio  ! 


172  The  Golden  Legend 

Ha  !  that  is  the  first  dash  of  the  rain, 
With  a  sprinkle  of  spray  above  the  rails, 
Just  enough  to  moisten  our  sails, 
And  make  them  ready  for  the  strain. 
See  how  she  leaps,  as  the  blasts  o'ertake  her, 
And  speeds  away  with  a  bone  in  her  mouth  ! 
Now  keep  her  head  toward  the  south, 
And  there  is  no  danger  of  bank  or  breaker. 
With  the  breeze  behind  us,  on  we  go  ; 
Not  too  much,  good  Saint  Antonio  1 


The  Golden  Legend  173 


VI. 


THE  SCHOOL  OF  SALERNO 

A  travelling  Scholastic  affixing  his  Theses  to  the  gate  of  the 
College. 

SCHOLASTIC. 

THERE,  that  is  my  gauntlet,  my  banner,  my 
shield, 

Hung  up  as  a  challenge  to  all  the  field  ! 
One  hundred  and  twenty-five  propositions, 
Which  I  will  maintain  with  the  sword  of  the  tongue 
Against  all  disputants,  old  and  young. 
Let  us  see  if  doctors  or  dialecticians 
Will  dare  to  dispute  my  definitions, 
Or  attack  any  one  of  my  learned  theses. 
Here  stand  I ;  the  end  shall  be  as  God  pleases. 
I  think  I  have  proved,  by  profound  researches, 
The  error  of  all  those  doctrines  so  vicious 
Of  the  old  Areopagite  Dionysius, 
That  are  making  such  terrible  work  in  the  churches, 
By  Michael  the  Stammerer  sent  from  the  East, 
And  done  into  Latin  by  that  Scottish  beast, 
Johannes  Duns  Scotus,  who  dares  to  maintain, 
In  the  face  of  the  truth,  the  error  infernal, 
That  the  universe  is  and  must  be  eternal ; 


174  The  Golden  Legend 

At  first  laying  down,  as  a  fact  fundamental, 
That  nothing  with  God  can  be  accidental ; 
Then  asserting  that  God  before  the  creation 
Could  not  have  existed,  because  it  is  plain 
That,  had  he  existed,  he  would  have  created  ; 
Which  is  begging  the  question  that  should  be  de 
bated, 

And  moveth  me  less  to  anger  than  laughter. 
All  nature,  he  holds,  is  a  respiration 
Of  the  Spirit  of  God,  who,  in  breathing,  hereafter 
Will  inhale  it  into  his  bosom  again, 
So  that  nothing  but  God  alone  will  remain. 
And  therein  he  contradicteth  himself; 
For  he  opens  the  whole  discussion  by  stating, 
That  God  can  only  exist  in  creating. 
That  question  I  think  I  have  laid  on  the  shelf! 

He  goes  out.     Two  Doctors  come  in  disputing,  and  folloioed  by 
pupils, 

DOCTOR   SERAFIXO. 

I,  with  the  Doctor  Seraphic,  maintain, 

That  a  word  which  is  only  conceived  in  the  brain 

Is  a  type  of  eternal  Generation ; 

The  spoken  word  is  the  Incarnation. 

DOCTOR   CHERUBIXO. 

What  do  I  care  for  the  Doctor  Seraphic, 
With  all  his  wordy  chaffer  and  traffic  ? 

DOCTOR   SERAFIXO. 

You  make  but  a  paltry  show  of  resistance  ; 
Universals  have  no  real  existence ! 


TJie  Golden  Legend  175 

DOCTOR  CHERUBIXO. 

Your  words  are  but  idle  and  empty  chatter ; 
Ideas  are  eternally  joined  to  matter ! 

DOCTOR   SERAFIXO. 

May  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  your  position, 
You  wretched,  wrangling  culler  of  herbs ! 

DOCTOR   CHERUBIXO. 

May  he  send  yonr  soul  to  eternal  perdition, 
For  your  Treatise  on  the  Irregular  Verbs  ! 

They  rush  outfighting.     Two  Scholars  come  in, 
FIRST   SCHOLAR. 

Monte  Cassino,  then,  is  your  College. 
What  think  you  of  ours  here  at  Salern  ? 

SECOXD   SCHOLAR. 

To  tell  the  truth,  I  arrived  so  lately, 

I  hardly  yet  have  had  time  to  discern. 

So  much,  at  least,  I  am  bound  to  acknowledge  : 

The  air  seems  healthy,  the  buildings  stately, 

And  on  the  whole  I  like  it  greatly. 

FIRST   SCHOLAR. 

Yes,  the  air  is  sweet ;  the  Calabrian  hills 

Send  us  down  puffs  of  mountain  air ; 

And  in  summer-time  the  sea-breeze  fills 

With  its  coolness  cloister,  and  court,  and  square. 

Then  at  every  season  of  the  year 

There  are  crowds  of  guests  and  travellers  here  ; 


:  -f 


L!  -;-  _- 


I:   : 


---- 


:    - 


:*:-. 


::  ^:v- 


As 


7    - 


1/8  The  Golden  Legend 

And  once  in  the  night,  if  they  live  in  town, 

And  if  they  are  poor,  to  take  no  pay. 

Having  faithfully  promised  these, 

His  head  is  crowned  with  a  laurel  crown ; 

A  kiss  on  his  cheek,  a  ring  on  his  hand, 

The  Magister  Artium  et  Physices 

Goes  forth  from  the  school  like  a  lord  of  the  land. 

And  now,  as  we  have  the  whole  morning  before  us, 

Let  us  go  in,  if  you  make  no  objection, 

And  listen  awhile  to  a  learned  prelection 

On  Marcus  Aurelius  Cassiodorus. 

They  go  in.    Enter  LUCIFER  as  a  Doctor. 
LUCIFER. 

This  is  the  great  School  of  Salern  ! 

A  land  of  wrangling  and  of  quarrels, 

Of  brains  that  seethe,  and  hearts  that  burn, 

Where  every  emulous  scholar  hears, 

In  every  breath  that  comes  to  his  ears, 

The  rustling  of  another's  laurels  ! 

The  air  of  the  place  is  called  salubrious  ; 

The  neighborhood  of  Vesuvius  lends  it 

An  odor  volcanic,  that  rather  mends  it, 

And  the  buildings  have  an  aspect  lugubrious, 

That  inspires  a  feeling  of  awe  and  terror 

Into  the  heart  of  the  beholder, 

And  befits  such  an  ancient  homestead  of  error, 

Where  the  old  falsehoods  moulder  and  smoulder, 

And  yearly  by  many  hundred  hands 


The  Golden  Legend  179 

Are  carried  away,  in  the  zeal  of  youth, 
And  sown  like  tares  in  the  field  of  truth, 
To  blossom  and  ripen  in  other  lands. 

What  have  we  here,  affixed  to  the  gate  ? 
The  challenge  of  some  scholastic  wight, 
Who  wishes  to  hold  a  public  debate 
On  sundry  questions  wrong  or  right ! 
Ah,  now  this  is  my  great  delight ! 
For  I  have  often  observed  of  late 
That  such  discussions  end  in  a  fight 
Let  us  see  what  the  learned  wag  maintains 
With  such  a  prodigal  waste  of  brains. 

Reads. 

"Whether  angels  in  moving  from  place  to  place 
Pass  through  the  intermediate  space. 
Whether  God  himself  is  the  author  of  evil, 
Or  whether  that  is  the  work  of  the  Devil. 
When,  where,  and  wherefore  Lucifer  fell, 
And  whether  he  now  is  chained  in  hell." 

I  think  I  can  answer  that  question  well ! 

So  long  as  the  boastful  human  mind 

Consents  in  such  mills  as  this  to  grind, 

I  sit  very  firmly  upon  my  throne  ! 

Of  a  truth  it  almost  makes  me  laugh, 

To  see  men  leaving  the  golden  grain 

To  gather  in  piles  the  pitiful  chaff 

That  old  Peter  Lombard  thrashed  with  his  brain, 


180  The  Golden  Legend 

To  have  it  caught  up  and  tossed  again 
On  the  horns  of  the  Dumb  Ox  of  Cologne  ! 

But  my  guests  approach  !  there  is  in  the  air 

A  fragrance,  like  that  of  the  Beautiful  Garden 

Of  Paradise,  in  the  days  that  were ! 

An  odor  of  innocence,  and  of  prayer, 

And  of  love,  and  faith  that  never  fails, 

Such  as  the  fresh  young  heart  exhales 

Before  it  begins  to  wither  and  harden ! 

I  cannot  breathe  such  an  atmosphere ! 

My  soul  is  filled  with  a  nameless  fear, 

That,  after  all  my  trouble  and  pain, 

After  all  my  restless  endeavor, 

The  youngest,  fairest  soul  of  the  twain, 

The  most  ethereal,  most  divine, 

Will  escape  from  my  hands  for  ever  and  ever. 

But  the  other  is  already  mine  ! 

Let  him  live  to  corrupt  his  race, 

Breathing  among  them,  with  every  breath, 

Weakness,  selfishness,  and  the  base 

And  pusillanimous  fear  of  death. 

I  know  his  nature,  and  I  know 

That  of  all  who  in  my  ministry 

Wander  the  great  earth  to  and  fro, 

And  on  my  errands  come  and  go, 

The  safest  and  subtlest  are  such  as  he. 

Enter  PRINCE  HENRY  and  ELSIE,  -with  attendants. 


The  Golden  Legend  181 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Can  you  direct  us  to  Friar  Angelo  ? 

LUCIFER. 

He  stands  before  you. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Then  you  know  our  purpose. 
I  am  Prince  Henry  of  Hoheneck,  and  this 
The  maiden  that  I  spake  of  in  my  letters. 

LUCIFER. 

It  is  a  very  grave  and  solemn  business  ! 
We  must  not  be  precipitate.     Does  she 
Without  compulsion,  of  her  own  free  will, 
Consent  to  this  ? 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Against  all  opposition, 
Against  all  prayers,  entreaties,  protestations. 
She  will  not  be  persuaded. 

LUCIFER. 

That  is  strange ! 
Have  you  thought  well  of  it  ? 

ELSIE. 

I  come  not  here 

To  argue,  but  to  die.     Your  business  is  not 
To  question,  but  to  kill  me.     I  am  ready. 
I  am  impatient  to  be  gone  from  here 
Ere  any  thoughts  of  earth  disturb  again 
The  spirit  of  tranquillity  within  me. 


1 82  The  Goldm  Legend 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Would  I  had  not  come  here  !     Would  I  were  dead, 
And  thou  wert  in  thy  cottage  in  the  forest, 
And  hadst  not  known  me !    Why  have  I  done  this  ? 
Let  me  go  back  and  die. 

ELSIE. 

It  cannot  be  ; 

Not  if  these  cold,  flat  stones  on  which  we  tread 
Were  coulters  heated  white,  and  yonder  gateway 
Flamed  like  a  furnace  with  a  sevenfold  heat. 
I  must  fulfil  my  purpose. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

I  forbid  it ! 

Not  one  step  farther.     For  I  only  meant 
To  put  thus  far  thy  courage  to  the  proof. 
It  is  enough.     I,  too,  have  strength  to  die, 
For  thou  hast  taught  me ! 

ELSIE. 

O  my  Prince  !  remember 
Your  promises.     Let  me  fulfil  my  errand. 
You  do  not  look  on  life  and  death  as  I  do. 
There  are  two  angels,  that  attend  unseen 
Each  one  of  us,  and  in  great  books  record 
Our  good  and  evil  deeds.     He  who  writes  down 
The  good  ones,  after  every  action  closes 
His  volume,  and  ascends  with  it  to  God. 
The  other  keeps  his  dreadful  day-book  open 
Till  sunset,  that  we  may  repent ;  which  doing, 


The  Goldeit  Legend  183 

The  record  of  the  action  fades  away, 

And  leaves  a  line  of  white  across  the  page. 

Now  if  my  act  be  good,  as  I  believe, 

It  cannot  be  recalled.     It  is  already 

Sealed  up  in  heaven,  as  a  good  deed  accomplished. 

The  rest  is  yours.     Why  wait  you  ?     I  am  ready. 

To  her  attendants. 

Weep  not,  my  friends  !  rather  rejoice  with  me. 
I  shall  not  feel  the  pain,  but  shall  be  gone, 
And  you  will  have  another  friend  in  heaven. 
Then  start  not  at  the  creaking  of  the  door 
Through  which  I  pass.     I  see  what  lies  beyond  it. 

To  PRINCE  HENRY. 

And  you,  O  Prince  !  bear  back  my  benison 

Unto  my  father's  house,  and  all  within  it. 

This  morning  in  the  church  I  prayed  for  them, 

After  confession,  after  absolution, 

When  my  whole  soul  was  white,  I  prayed  for  them. 

God  will  take  care  of  them,  they  need  me  not. 

And  in  your  life  let  my  remembrance  linger, 

As  something  not  to  trouble  and  disturb  it, 

But  to  complete  it,  adding  life  to  life. 

And  if  at  times  beside  the  evening  fire 

You  see  my  face  among  the  other  faces, 

Let  it  not  be  regarded  as  a  ghost 

That  haunts  your  house,  but  as  a  guest  that  loves 

you, 
Nay,  even  as  one  of  your  own  family, 


184  The  Golden  Legend 

Without   whose    presence    there    were    something 

wanting. 
I  have  no  more  to  say.     Let  us  go  in. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Friar  Angelo !  I  charge  you  on  your  life, 
Believe  not  what  she  says,  for  she  is  mad, 
And  comes  here  not  to  die,  but  to  be  healed. 

ELSIE. 
Alas  !  Prince  Henry  ! 

LUCIFER. 

Come  with  me  ;  this  way. 

ELSIE  goes  in  with  LUCIFER,  -who  thrusts  PRINCE  HENRY  back 
and  closes  the  door. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Gone  !  and  the  light  of  all  my  life  gone  with  her  ! 

A  sudden  darkness  falls  upon  the  world ! 

O,  what  a  vile  and  abject  thing  am  I, 

That  purchase  length  of  days  at  such  a  cost ! 

Not  by  her  death  alone,  but  by  the  death 

Of  all  that 's  good  and  true  and  noble  in  me  ! 

All  manhood,  excellence,  and  self-respect, 

All  love,  and  faith,  and  hope,  and  heart  are  dead ! 

All  my  divine  nobility  of  nature 

By  this  one  act  is  forfeited  forever. 

I  am  a  Prince  in  nothing  but  in  name  ! 

To  the  attendants. 
Why  did  you  let  this  horrible  deed  be  done  ? 


The  Golden  Legend  185 

Why  did  you  not  lay  hold  on  her,  and  keep  her 
From  self-destruction  ?     Angelo !  murderer ! 
Struggles  at  the  door,  but  cannot  open  it. 

ELSIE,  within. 
Farewell,  dear  Prince  !  farewell ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Unbar  the  door ! 

LUCIFER. 

It  is  too  late  ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

It  shall  not  be  too  late  ! 
They  burst  the  door  open  and  rush  in. 


THE   COTTAGE   IN   THE   ODENWALD 

URSULA  spinning.     Summer  afternoon.     A  table  spread. 
URSULA. 

I  HAVE  marked  it  well,  —  it  must  be  true,  — 
Death  never  takes  one  alone,  but  two  ! 
Whenever  he  enters  in  at  a  door, 
Under  roof  of  gold  or  roof  of  thatch, 
He  always  leaves  it  upon  the  latch, 
And  comes  again  ere  the  year  is  o'er. 
Never  one  of  a  household  only  ! 
Perhaps  it  is  a  mercy  of  God, 
Lest  the  dead  there  under  the  sod, 


1 86  The  Golden  Legend 

In  the  land  of  strangers,  should  be  lonely ! 
Ah  me  !  I  think  I  am  lonelier  here  ! 
It  is  hard  to  go,  —  but  harder  to  stay ! 
Were  it  not  for  the  children,  I  should  pray 
That  Death  would  take  me  within  the  year  ! 
And  Gottlieb  !  —  he  is  at  work  all  day, 
In  the  sunny  field,  or  the  forest  murk, 
But  I  know  that  his  thoughts  are  far  away, 
I  know  that  his  heart  is  not  in  his  work  ! 
And  when  he  comes  home  to  me  at  night 
He  is  not  cheery,  but  sits  and  sighs, 
And  I  see  the  great  tears  in  his  eyes, 
And  try  to  be  cheerful  for  his  sake. 
Only  the  children's  hearts  are  light 
Mine  is  weary,  and  ready  to  break. 
God  help  us  !     I  hope  we  have  done  right ; 
We  thought  we  were  acting  for  the  best ! 

Looking  through  the  open  door. 

Who  is  it  coming  under  the  trees  ? 
A  man,  in  the  Prince's  livery  dressed ! 
He  looks  about  him  with  doubtful  face, 
As  if  uncertain  of  the  place. 
He  stops  at  the  beehives ;  —  now  he  sees 
The  garden  gate  ;  —  he  is  going  past ! 
Can  he  be  afraid  of  the  bees  ? 
No ;  he  is  coming  in  at  last ! 
He  fills  my  heart  with  strange  alarm  ! 
Enter  a  Forester. 


The  Golden  Legend  187 

FORESTER. 

Is  this  the  tenant  Gottlieb's  farm  ? 

URSULA. 

This  is  his  farm,  and  I  his  wife. 

Pray  sit.     What  may  your  business  be  ? 

FORESTER. 

News  from  the  Prince ! 

URSULA. 

Of  death  or  life  ? 

FORESTER. 

You  put  your  questions  eagerly  ! 

URSULA. 
Answer  me,  then  !     How  is  the  Prince  ? 

FORESTER. 

I  left  him  only  two  hours  since 
Homeward  returning  down  the  river, 
As  strong  and  well  as  if  God,  the  Giver, 
Had  given  him  back  his  youth  again. 

URSULA,  despairing. 
Then  Elsie,  my  poor  child,  is  dead  ! 

FORESTER. 

That,  my  good  woman,  I  have  not  said. 
Don't  cross  the  bridge  till  you  come  to  it, 
Is  a  proverb  old,  and  of  excellent  wit. 


1 88  The  Golden  Legend 

URSULA. 
Keep  me  no  longer  in  this  pain ! 

FORESTER. 

It  is  true  your  daughter  is  no  more  ;  — 
That  is,  the  peasant  she  was  before. 

URSULA. 

Alas !  I  am  simple  and  lowly  bred, 
I  am  poor,  distracted,  and  forlorn. 
And  it  is  not  well  that  you  of  the  court 
Should  mock  me  thus,  and  make  a  sport 
Of  a  joyless  mother  whose  child  is  dead, 
For  you,  too,  were  of  mother  born ! 

FORESTER. 

Your  daughter  lives,  and  the  Prince  is  well ! 
You  will  learn  erelong  how  it  all  befell. 
Her  heart  for  a  moment  never  failed  ; 
But  when  they  reached  Salerno's  gate, 
The  Prince's  nobler  self  prevailed, 
And  saved  her  for  a  nobler  fate. 
And  he  was  healed,  in  his  despair, 
By  the  touch  of  St.  Matthew's  sacred  bones ; 
Though  I  think  the  long  ride  in  the  open  air, 
That  pilgrimage  over  stocks  and  stones, 
In  the  miracle  must  come  in  for  a  share ! 

URSULA. 

Virgin  !  who  lovest  the  poor  and  lowly, 
If  the  loud  cry  of  a  mother's  heart 


The  Golden  Legend 

Can  ever  ascend  to  where  thou  art, 

Into  thy  blessed  hands  and  holy 

Receive  my  prayer  of  praise  and  thanksgiving 

Let  the  hands  that  bore  our  Saviour  bear  it 

Into  the  awful  presence  of  God ; 

For  thy  feet  with  holiness  are  shod, 

And  if  thou  bearest  it  he  will  hear  it. 

Our  child  who  was  dead  again  is  living ! 

FORESTER. 

I  did  not  tell  you  she  was  dead ; 

If  you  thought  so  't  was  no  fault  of  mine ; 

At  this  very  moment,  while  I  speak, 

They  are  sailing  homeward  down  the  Rhine, 

In  a  splendid  barge,  with  golden  prow, 

And  decked  with  banners  white  and  red 

As  the  colors  on  your  daughter's  cheek. 

They  call  her  the  Lady  Alicia  now ; 

For  the  Prince  in  Salerno  made  a  vow 

That  Elsie  only  would  he  wed. 

URSULA. 

Jesu  Maria !  what  a  change  ! 

All  seems  to  me  so  weird  and  strange ! 

FORESTER. 

I  saw  her  standing  on  the  deck, 
Beneath  an  awning  cool  and  shady ; 
Her  cap  of  velvet  could  not  hold 
The  tresses  of  her  hair  of  gold, 


190  The  Golden  Legend 

That  flowed  and  floated  like  the  stream, 

And  fell  in  masses  down  her  neck. 

As  fair  and  lovely  did  she  seem 

As  in  a  story  or  a  dream 

Some  beautiful  and  foreign  lady. 

And  the  Prince  looked  so  grand  and  proud, 

And  waved  his  hand  thus  to  the  crowd 

That  gazed  and  shouted  from  the  shore, 

All  down  the  river,  long  and  loud. 

URSULA. 

We  shall  behold  our  child  once  more  ; 
She  is  not  dead  !     She  is  not  dead  ! 
God,  listening,  must  have  overheard 
The  prayers,  that,  without  sound  or  word, 
Our  hearts  in  secrecy  have  said  ! 
O,  bring  me  to  her ;  for  mine  eyes 
Are  hungry  to  behold  her  face  ; 
My  very  soul  within  me  cries ; 
My  very  hands  seem  to  caress  her, 
To  see  her,  gaze  at  her,  and  bless  her ; 
Dear  Elsie,  child  of  God  and  grace  ! 

Goes  out  toward  the  garden. 
FORESTER. 

There  goes  the  good  woman  out  of  her  head 
And  Gottlieb's  supper  is  waiting  here  ; 
A  very  capacious  flagon  of  beer, 
And  a  very  portentous  loaf  of  bread. 


The  Golden  Legend  191 

One  would  say  his  grief  did  not  much  oppress  him. 
Here 's  to  the  health  of  the  Prince,  God  bless  him ! 

He  drinks. 

Ha !  it  buzzes  and  stings  like  a  hornet ! 
And  what  a  scene  there,  through  the  door ! 
The  forest  behind  and  the  garden  before, 
And  midway  an  old  man  of  threescore, 
With  a  wife  and  children  that  caress  him. 
Let  me  try  still  further  to  cheer  and  adorn  it 
With  a  merry,  echoing  blast  of  my  cornet ! 
Goes  out  blowing  his  horn. 


THE  CASTLE  OF  VAUTSBERG  ON  THE  RHINE 

PRINCE  HENRY  and  ELSIE  standing  on  the  terrace  at  evening. 
The  sound  of  bells  heard  from  a  distance. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

WE  are  alone.     The  wedding  guests 
Ride  down  the  hill,  with  plumes  and  cloaks, 
And  the  descending  dark  invests 
The  Niederwald,  and  all  the  nests 
Among  its  hoar  and  haunted  oaks. 

ELSIE. 

What  bells  are  those,  that  ring  so  slow, 
So  mellow,  musical,  and  low  ? 


192  The  Golden  Legend 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

They  are  the  bells  of  Geisenheim, 
That  with  their  melancholy  chime 
Ring  out  the  curfew  of  the  sun. 

ELSIE. 

Listen,  beloved. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

They  are  done ! 
Dear  Elsie !  many  years  ago 
Those  same  soft  bells  at  eventide 
Rang  in  the  ears  of  Charlemagne, 
As,  seated  by  Fastrada's  side 
At  Ingelheim,  in  all  his  pride 
He  heard  their  sound  with  secret  pain. 

ELSIE. 

Their  voices  only  speak  to  me 
Of  peace  and  deep  tranquillity, 
And  endless  confidence  in  thee ! 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Thou  knowest  the  story  of  her  ring, 
How,  when  the  court  went  back  to  Aix, 
Fastrada  died ;  and  how  the  king 
Sat  watching  by  her  night  and  day, 
Till  into  one  of  the  blue  lakes, 
Which  water  that  delicious  land, 
They  cast  the  ring,  drawn  from  her  hand 
And  the  great  monarch  sat  serene 


The  Golden  Legend  193. 

And  sad  beside  the  fated  shore, 
Nor  left  the  land  forevermore. 

ELSIE. 
That  was  true  love. 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

For  him  the  queen 
Ne'er  did  what  thou  hast  done  for  me. 

ELSIE. 

Wilt  thou  as  fond  and  faithful  be  ? 
Wilt  thou  so  love  me  after  death  ? 

PRINCE   HENRY. 

In  life's  delight,  in  death's  dismay, 
In  storm  and  sunshine,  night  and  day, 
In  health,  in  sickness,  in  decay, 
Here  and  hereafter,  I  am  thine ! 
Thou  hast  Fastrada's  ring.     Beneath 
The  calm,  blue  waters  of  thine  eyes 
Deep  in  thy  steadfast  soul  it  lies, 
And,  undisturbed  by  this  world's  breath, 
With  magic  light  its  jewels  shine ! 
This  golden  ring,  which  thou  hast  worn 
Upon  thy  finger  since  the  morn, 
Is  but  a  symbol  and  a  semblance, 
An  outward  fashion,  a  remembrance, 
Of  what  thou  wearest  within  unseen, 
O  my  Fastrada,  O  my  queen  ! 
Behold !  the  hill-tops  all  aglow 
VOL.  vi.  9  M 


•  194  The  Golden  Legend 

With  purple  and  with  amethyst ; 
While  the  whole  valley  deep  below 
Is  filled,  and  seems  to  overflow, 
With  a  fast-rising  tide  of  mist. 
The  evening  air  grows  damp  and  chill ; 
Let  us  go  in. 

ELSIE. 

Ah,  not  so  soon. 

See  yonder  fire  !     It  is  the  moon 
Slow  rising  o'er  the  eastern  hill. 
It  glimmers  on  the  forest  tips, 
And  through  the  dewy  foliage  drips 
In  little  rivulets  of  light, 
And  makes  the  heart  in  love  with  night. 

PRINCE    HENRY. 

Oft  on  this  terrace,  when  the  day 
Was  closing,  have  I  stood  and  gazed, 
And  seen  the  landscape  fade  away, 
And  the  white  vapors  rise  and  drown 
Hamlet  and  vineyard,  tower  and  town, 
While  far  above  the  hill-tops  blazed. 
But  then  another  hand  than  thine 
Was  gently  held  and  clasped  in  mine  ; 
Another  head  upon  my  breast 
Was  laid,  as  thine  is  now,  at  rest. 
Why  dost  thou  lift  those  tender  eyes 
With  so  much  sorrow  and  surprise  ? 
A  minstrel's,  not  a  maiden's  hand, 


The  Golden  Legend  195 

Was  that  which  in  my  own  was  pressed. 

A  manly  form  usurped  thy  place, 

A  beautiful,  but  bearded  face, 

That  now  is  in  the  Holy  Land, 

Yet  in  my  memory  from  afar 

Is  shining  on  us  like  a  star. 

But  linger  not.     For  while  I  speak, 

A  sheeted  spectre  white  and  tall, 

The  cold  mist  climbs  the  castle  wall, 

And  lays  his  hand  upon  thy  cheek ! 

They  go  in. 


EPILOGUE 


THE  TWO   RECORDING  ANGELS  ASCENDING 
THE  ANGEL   OF   GOOD   DEEDS,  with  closed  book. 

GOD  sent  his  messenger  the  rain, 
And  said  unto  the  mountain  brook, 
"  Rise  up,  and  from  thy  caverns  look 
And  leap,  with  naked,  snow-white  feet, 
From  the  cool  hills  into  the  heat 
Of  the  broad,  arid  plain." 

God  sent  his  messenger  of  faith, 

And  whispered  in  the  maiden's  heart, 

"  Rise  up,  and  look  from  where  thou  art, 

And  scatter  with  unselfish  hands 

Thy  freshness  on  the  barren  sands 

And  solitudes  of  Death." 

O  beauty  of  holiness, 

Of  self-forgetfulness,  of  lowliness  ! 

O  power  of  meekness, 

Whose  very  gentleness  and  weakness 

Are  like  the  yielding,  but  irresistible  air ! 

Upon  the  pages 


198  The  Golden  Legend 

Of  the  sealed  volume  that  I  bear, 

The  deed  divine 

Is  written  in  characters  of  gold, 

That  never  shall  grow  old, 

But  through  all  ages 

Burn  and  shine, 

With  soft  effulgence  ! 

O  God !  it  is  thy  indulgence 

That  fills  the  world  with  the  bliss 

Of  a  good  deed  like  this  ! 

THE  ANGEL  OF   EVIL   DEEDS,  with  open  book. 

Not  yet,  not  yet 

Is  the  red  sun  wholly  set, 

But  evermore  recedes, 

While  open  still  I  bear 

The  Book  of  Evil  Deeds, 

To  let  the  breathings  of  the  upper  air 

Visit  its  pages  and  erase 

The  records  from  its  face  ! 

Fainter  and  fainter  as  I  gaze 

In  the  broad  blaze 

The  glimmering  landscape  shines, 

And  below  me  the  black  river 

Is  hidden  by  wreaths  of  vapor ! 

Fainter  and  fainter  the  black  lines 

Begin  to  quiver 

Along  the  whitening  surface  of  the  paper ; 

Shade  after  shade 


The  Golden  Legend  199 

The  terrible  words  grow  faint  and  fade, 
And  in  their  place 
Runs  a  white  space  ! 

Down  goes  the  sun  ! 

But  the  soul  of  one, 

Who  by  repentance 

Has  escaped  the  dreadful  sentence, 

Shines  bright  below  me  as  I  look. 

It  is  the  end  ! 

With  closed  Book 

To  God  do  I  ascend. 

Lo  !  over  the  mountain  steeps 

A  dark,  gigantic  shadow  sweeps 

Beneath  my  feet ; 

A  blackness  inwardly  brightening 

With  sullen  heat, 

As  a  storm-cloud  lurid  with  lightning. 

And  a  cry  of  lamentation, 

Repeated  and  again  repeated, 

Deep  and  loud 

As  the  reverberation 

Of  cloud  answering  unto  cloud, 

Swells  and  rolls  away  in  the  distance, 

As  if  the  sheeted 

Lightning  retreated, 

Baffled  and  thwarted  by  the  wind's  resistance. 


2OO  The  Golden  Legend 

It  is  Lucifer, 

The  son  of  mystery  ; 

And  since  God  suffers  him  to  be, 

He,  too,  is  God's  minister, 

And  labors  for  some  good 

By  us  not  understood ! 


THE 


COURTSHIP   OF  MILES   STANDISH 


1858 


I. 


MILES   STANDISH 

IN  the  Old  Colony  days,  in  Plymouth  the  land 
of  the  Pilgrims, 

To  and  fro  in  a  room  of  his  simple  and  primitive 
dwelling, 

Clad  in  doublet  and  hose,  and  boots  of  Cordovan 
leather, 

Strode,  with  a  martial  air,  Miles  Standish  the  Puri 
tan  Captain. 

Buried  in  thought  he  seemed,  with  his  hands  be 
hind  him,  and  pausing 

Ever  and  anon  to  behold  his  glittering  weapons  of 
warfare, 

Hanging  in  shining  array  along  the  walls  of  the 
chamber,  — 

Cutlass  and  corslet  of  steel,  and  his  trusty  sword 
of  Damascus, 

Curved  at  the  point  and  inscribed  with  its  mystical 
Arabic  sentence, 

While  underneath,  in  a  corner,  were  fowling-piece, 
musket,  and  matchlock. 

Short  of  stature  he  was,  but  strongly  built  and 
athletic, 


2O4     The  Courtship  of  Miles   Standish 

Broad  in  the  shoulders,  deep-chested,  with  muscles 

and  sinews  of  iron  ; 
Brown  as  a  nut  was  his  face,  but  his  russet  beard 

was  already 
Flaked  with  patches  of  snow,  as  hedges  sometimes 

in  November. 
Near  him  was  seated  John  Alden,  his  friend,  and 

household  companion, 
Writing  with  diligent  speed  at  a  table  of  pine  by 

the  window ; 

Fair-haired,  azure-eyed,  with  delicate  Saxon  com 
plexion, 
Having    the  dew   of  his  youth,  and   the  beauty 

thereof,  as  the  captives 
Whom    Saint   Gregory  saw,  and  exclaimed,  "Not 

Angles,  but  Angels." 
Youngest  of  all  was  he  of  the  men  who  came  in 

the  May  Flower. 

Suddenly  breaking  the  silence,  the  diligent 
scribe  interrupting, 

Spake,  in  the  pride  of  his  heart,  Miles  Standish 
the  Captain  of  Plymouth. 

"  Look  at  these  arms,"  he  said,  "  the  warlike  weap 
ons  that  hang  here 

Burnished  and  bright  and  clean,  as  if  for  parade  or 
inspection ! 

This  is  the  sword  of  Damascus  I  fought  with  in 
Flanders ;  this  breastplate, 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish      205 

Well  I  remember  the  day !  once  saved  my  life  in  a 

skirmish ; 
Here  in  front  you  can   see  the  very  dint  of  the 

bullet 
Fired  point-blank  at  my  heart  by  a  Spanish  arca- 

bucero. 
Had  it  not  been  of  sheer  steel,  the  forgotten  bones 

of  Miles  Standish 
Would  at  this  moment  be  mould,  in  their  grave  in 

the  Flemish  morasses." 
Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  but  looked  not 

up  from  his  writing : 
"  Truly  the  breath  of  the  Lord  hath  slackened  the 

speed  of  the  bullet ; 
He  in  his  mercy  preserved  you,  to  be  our  shield 

and  our  weapon  ! " 
Still  the  Captain  continued,  unheeding  the  words 

of  the  stripling : 
"  See,  how  bright  they  are  burnished,  as  if  in  an 

arsenal  hanging ; 
That  is  because  I  have  done  it  myself,  and  not  left 

it  to  others. 
Serve  yourself,  would   you  be  well   served,  is   an 

excellent  adage  ; 
So  I  take  care  of  my  arms,  as  you  of  your  pens 

and  your  inkhorn. 

Then,  too,  there  are  my  soldiers,  my  great,  invinci 
ble  army, 
Twelve  men,  all  equipped,  having  each   his   rest 

and  his  matchlock, 


2o6     The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

Eighteen  shillings  a  month,  together  with  diet  and 

pillage, 
And,  like  Caesar,  I  know  the  name  of  each  of  my 

soldiers ! " 
This  he  said  with  a  smile,  that  danced  in  his  eyes, 

as  the  sunbeams 
Dance  on  the  waves  of  the  sea,  and  vanish  again 

in  a  moment. 
Alden  laughed  as  he  wrote,  and  still  the  Captain 

continued  : 
"  Look !  you  can  see  from  this  window  my  brazen 

howitzer  planted 
High  on  the  roof  of  the  church,  a  preacher  who 

speaks  to  the  purpose, 

Steady,  straightforward,  and  strong,  with  irresisti 
ble  logic, 
Orthodox,  flashing  conviction  right  into  the  hearts 

of  the  heathen. 
Now  we  are  ready,  I  think,  for  any  assault  of  the 

Indians ; 
Let  them  come,  if  they  like,  and  the  sooner  they 

try  it  the  better,  — 
Let  them  come  if  they  like,  be  it  sagamore,  sachem, 

or  pow-wow, 
Aspinet,  Samoset,  Corbitant,  Squanto,  or  Tokama- 

hamon ! " 

Long   at   the  window  he   stood,   and   wistfully 
gazed  on  the  landscape, 


The  Coiirtship  of  Miles  Standish     207 

Washed  with  a  cold  gray  mist,  the  vapory  breath 

of  the  east-wind, 
Forest  and  meadow  and  hill,  and  the  steel-blue  rim 

of  the  ocean, 
Lying  silent  and  sad,  in  the   afternoon    shadows 

and  sunshine. 
Over  his  countenance  flitted  a  shadow  like  those 

on  the  landscape, 
Gloom  intermingled  with  light ;  and  his  voice  was 

subdued  with  emotion, 

Tenderness,  pity,  regret,  as  after  a  pause  he  pro 
ceeded  : 
"  Yonder  there,  on  the  hill  by  the  sea,  lies  buried 

Rose  Standish ; 
Beautiful  rose  of  love,  that  bloomed  for  me  by  the 

wayside ! 
She  was  the  first  to  die  of  all  who  came  in  the 

May  Flower ! 
Green  above  her  is  growing  the  field  of  wheat  we 

have  sown  there, 
Better  to  hide  from  the  Indian  scouts  the  graves 

of  our  people, 
Lest  they  should  count  them  and  see  how  many 

already  have  perished  !  " 
Sadly   his   face   he   averted,    and   strode   up  and 

down,  and  was  thoughtful. 

Fixed  to  the  opposite  wall  was  a  shelf  of  books, 
and  among  them 


2o8     The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

Prominent  three,  distinguished  alike  for  bulk  and 
for  binding ; 

Bariffe's  Artillery  Guide,  and  the  Commentaries  of 
Caesar 

Out  of  the  Latin  translated  by  Arthur  Goldinge  of 
London, 

And,  as  if  guarded  by  these,  between  them  was 
standing  the  Bible. 

Musing  a  moment  before   them,  Miles    Standish 
paused,  as  if  doubtful 

Which  of  the  three  he  should  choose  for  his  conso 
lation  and  comfort, 

Whether  the   wars  of  the   Hebrews,  the  famous 
campaigns  of  the  Romans, 

Or  the  Artillery  practice,  designed  for  belligerent 
Christians. 

Finally  down  from  its  shelf  he  dragged  the  pon 
derous  Roman, 

Seated  himself  at  the  window,   and   opened   the 
book,  and  in  silence 

Turned  o'er  the  well-worn  leaves,   where   thumb- 
marks  thick  on  the  margin, 

Like  the  trample  of  feet,  proclaimed  the  battle  was 
hottest, 

Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hurrying 
pen  of  the  stripling, 

Busily  writing  epistles  important,  to  go  by  the  May 
Flower, 

Ready  to  sail  on  the  morrow,  or  next  day  at  latest, 
God  willing ! 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish     209 

Homeward  bound  with  the  tidings  of  all  that  terri 
ble  winter, 

Letters  written  by  Alden,  and  full  of  the  name  of 
Priscilla, 

Full  of  the  name  and  the  fame  of  the  Puritan 
maiden  Priscilla ! 


II. 


LOVE   AND    FRIENDSHIP 

NOTHING  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hurrying 

pen  of  the  stripling, 
Or  an  occasional  sigh  from  the  laboring  heart  of 

the  Captain, 
Reading  the  marvellous  words  and  achievements 

of  Julius  Caesar. 
After  a  while  he  exclaimed,  as  he  smote  with  his 

hand,  palm  downwards, 
Heavily  on  the  page  :  "  A  wonderful  man  was  this 

Caesar  ! 
You  are  a  writer,  and  I  am  a  fighter,  but  here  is  a 

fellow 
Who  could  both  write  and  fight,  and  in  both  was 

equally  skilful !  " 
Straightway  answered  and  spake  John  Alden,  the 

comely,  the  youthful : 

VOL.  VI.  N 


2io     The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

"  Yes,  he  was  equally  skilled,  as  you  say,  with  his 
pen  and  his  weapons. 

Somewhere  have  I  read,  but  where  I  forget,  he 
co'uld  dictate 

Seven  letters  at  once,  at  the  same  time  writing  his 
memoirs." 

"Truly,"  continued  the  Captain,  not  heeding  or 
hearing  the  other, 

"Truly  a  wonderful  man  was  Caius  Julius  Cae 
sar  ! 

Better  be  first,  he  said,  in  a  little  Iberian  vil 
lage, 

Than  be  second  in  Rome,  and  I  think  he  was 
right  when  he  said  it. 

Twice  was  he  married  before  he  was  twenty,  and 
many  times  after ; 

Battles  five  hundred  he  fought,  and  a  thousand 
cities  he  conquered  ; 

He,  too,  fought  in  Flanders,  as  he  himself  has  re 
corded  ; 

Finally  he  was  stabbed  by  his  friend,  the  orator 
Brutus  ! 

Now,  do  you  know  what  he  did  on  a  certain  occa 
sion  in  Flanders, 

When  the  rear-guard  of  his  army  retreated,  the 
front  giving  way  too, 

And  the  immortal  Twelfth  Legion  was  crowded  so 
closely  together 

There  was  no  room  for  their  swords  ?  Why,  he 
seized  a  shield  from  a  soldier, 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish     211 

Put  himself  straight  at  the  head  of  his  troops,  and 

commanded  the  captains, 
Calling  on  each  by  his  name,  to  order  forward  the 

ensigns ; 
Then  to  widen  the  ranks,  and  give  more  room  for 

their  weapons ; 
So  he  won  the  day,  the   battle   of  something-or- 

other. 
That 's  what  I  always  say ;  if  you  wish  a  thing  to  be 

well  done, 
You  must  do  it  yourself,  you  must  not  leave  it  to 

others ! " 

All  was  silent  again ;  the  Captain  continued  his 

reading. 
Nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hurrying 

pen  of  the  stripling 
Writing  epistles  important  to  go  next  day  by  the 

May  Flower, 
Filled  with  the  name  and  the  fame  of  the  Puritan 

maiden  Priscilla ; 
Every  sentence  began  or  closed  with  the  name  of 

Priscilla, 
Till  the  treacherous  pen,  to  which  he  confided  the 

secret, 
Strove  to  betray  it  by  singing   and   shouting   the 

name  of  Priscilla ! 

Finally  closing  his  book,  with  a  bang  of  the  ponder 
ous  cover, 


212     The  Courtship  of  Miles   Standish 

Sudden  and  loud  as  the  sound  of  a  soldier  ground 
ing  his  musket, 

Thus  to  the  young  man  spake  Miles  Standish  the 
Captain  of  Plymouth  : 

"  When  you  have  finished  your  work,  I  have  some 
thing  important  to  tell  you. 

Be  not  however  in  haste ;  I  can  wait ;  I  shall  not 
be  impatient ! " 

Straightway  Alden  replied,  as  he  folded  the  last 
of  his  letters, 

Pushing  his  papers  aside,  and  giving  respectful 
attention  : 

"  Speak ;  for  whenever  you  speak,  I  am  always 
ready  to  listen, 

Always  ready  to  hear  whatever  pertains  to  Miles 
Standish." 

Thereupon  answered  the  Captain,  embarrassed, 
and  culling  his  phrases  : 

"  'T  is  not  good  for  a  man  to  be  alone,  say  the 
Scriptures. 

This  I  have  said  before,  and  again  and  again  I 
repeat  it ; 

Every  hour  in  the  day,  I  think  it,  and  feel  it,  and 
say  it. 

Since  Rose  Standish  died,  my  life  has  been  weary 
and  dreary ; 

Sick  at  heart  have  I  been,  beyond  the  healing  of 
friendship. 

Oft  in  my  lonely  hours  have  I  thought  of  the  maid 
en  Priscilla. 


The  CourtsJiip  of  Miles  Standish     213 

She  is  alone  in  the  world ;  her  father  and  mother 

and  brother 
Died  in  the  winter  together ;  I  saw  her  going  and 

coming, 
Now  to  the  grave  of  the  dead,  and  now  to  the  bed 

of  the  dying, 

Patient,  courageous,  and  strong,  and  said  to  my 
self,  that  if  ever 
There  were  angels  on  earth,  as  there  are  angels  in 

heaven, 
Two  have  I  seen  and  known ;  and  the  angel  whose 

name  is  Priscilla 
Holds   in   my  desolate   life  the   place  which   the 

other  abandoned. 
Long  have  I  cherished  the  thought,  but  never  have 

dared  to  reveal  it, 
Being  a  coward  in  this,  though  valiant  enough  for 

the  most  part. 
Go  to  the  damsel  Priscilla,  the  loveliest  maiden  of 

Plymouth, 
Say  that  a  blunt  old  Captain,  a  man  not  of  words 

but  of  actions, 
Offers  his  hand  and  his  heart,  the  hand  and  heart 

of  a  soldier. 
Not  in  these  words,  you  know,  but  this  in  short  is 

my  meaning ; 

I  am  a  maker  of  war,  and  not  a  maker  of  phrases. 
You,  who  are  bred  as  a  scholar,  can  say  it  in  ele 
gant  language, 


214     The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

Such  as  you  read  in  your  books  of  the  pleadings 

and  wooings  of  lovers, 
Such  as  you  think  best  adapted  to  win  the  heart 

of  a  maiden." 

When  he  had  spoken,  John  Alden,  the  fair- 
haired,  taciturn  stripling, 

All  aghast  at  his  words,  surprised,  embarrassed, 
bewildered, 

Trying  to  mask  his  dismay  by  treating  the  subject 
with  lightness, 

Trying  to  smile,  and  yet  feeling  his  heart  stand 
still  in  his  bosom, 

Just  as  a  timepiece  stops  in  a  house  that  is  stricken 
by  lightning, 

Thus  made  answer  and  spake,  or  rather  stammered 
than  answered : 

"  Such  a  message  as  that,  I  am  sure  I  should  man 
gle  and  mar  it ; 

If  you  would  have  it  well  done,  —  I  am  only  re 
peating  your  maxim,  — 

You  must  do  it  yourself,  you  must  not  leave  it  to 
others ! " 

But  with  the  air  of  a  man  whom  nothing  can  turn 
from  his  purpose, 

Gravely  shaking  his  head,  made  answer  the  Cap 
tain  of  Plymouth  : 

"  Truly  the  maxim  is  good,  and  I  do  not  mean  to 
gainsay  it ; 


The  Coiirtship  of  Miles  Standish     215 

But  we  must  use  it  discreetly,  and  not  waste  powder 

for  nothing. 
Now,  as  I  said  before,  I  was   never  a  maker  of 

phrases. 
I  can  march   up  to  a  fortress   and   summon  the 

place  to  surrender, 
But  march  up  to  a  woman  with  such  a  proposal,  I 

dare  not. 
I  'm  not  afraid  of  bullets,  nor  shot  from  the  mouth 

of  a  cannon, 
But  of  a  thundering  "  No  !  "  point-blank  from  the 

mouth  of  a  woman, 
That  I  confess  I  'm  afraid  of,  nor  am  I  ashamed  to 

confess  it ! 
So  you  must   grant  my  request,  for  you  are  an 

elegant  scholar, 

Having  the  graces  of  speech,  and  skill  in  the  turn 
ing  of  phrases." 

Taking  the  hand  of  his  friend,  who  still  was  re 
luctant  and  doubtful, 
Holding  it  long  in  his  own,  and  pressing  it  kindly, 

he  added  : 
"Though  I  have  spoken  thus  lightly,  yet  deep  is 

the  feeling  that  prompts  me  ; 
Surely  you  cannot  refuse  what  I  ask  in  the  name  of 

our  friendship !  " 
Then  made  answer  John  Alden  :  "  The  name  of 

friendship  is  sacred  ; 
What  you  demand  in  that  name,  I  have  not  the 

power  to  deny  you !  " 


216     The  Courtship  of  Miles   Standish 

So  the  strong  will  prevailed,  subduing  and  mould 
ing  the  gentler, 

Friendship  prevailed  over  love,  and  Alden  went  on 
his  errand. 


III. 

THE   LOVER'S    ERRAND 

So  the  strong  will  prevailed,  and  Alden  went  on 
his  errand, 

Out  of  the  street  of  the  village,  and  into  the  paths 
of  the  forest, 

Into  the  tranquil  woods,  where  bluebirds  and  rob 
ins  were  building 

Towns  in  the  populous  trees,  with  hanging  gardens 
of  verdure, 

Peaceful,  aerial  cities  of  joy  and  affection  and  free 
dom. 

All  around  him  was  calm,  but  within  him  commo 
tion  and  conflict, 

Love  contending  with  friendship,  and  self  with 
each  generous  impulse. 

To  and  fro  in  his  breast  his  thoughts  were  heaving 
and  dashing, 

As  in  a  foundering  ship,  with  every  roll  of  the 
vessel, 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish     217 

Washes  the  bitter  sea,  the  merciless  surge  of  the 

ocean ! 
"Must  I  relinquish  it  all,"  he  cried  with  a  wild 

lamentation, 
"  Must  I  relinquish  it  all,  the  joy,  the  hope,  the 

illusion  ? 

Was  it  for  this  I  have  loved,  and  waited,  and  wor 
shipped  in  silence  ? 
Was  it  for  this  I  have  followed  the  flying  feet  and 

the  shadow 
Over  the  wintry  sea,  to  the  desolate  shores  of  New 

England  ? 
Truly  the  heart  is  deceitful,  and  out  of  its  depths 

of  corruption 
Rise,  like  an  exhalation,  the  misty  phantoms  of 

passion ; 
Angels  of  light  they  seem,  but  are  only  delusions 

of  Satan. 

All   is  clear  to  me  now;  I  feel  it,  I  see  it  dis 
tinctly  ! 
This  is  the  hand  of  the  Lord  ;  it  is  laid  upon  me 

in  anger, 
For  I  have  followed  too  much  the  heart's  desires 

and  devices, 
Worshipping  Astaroth  blindly,   and  impious  idols 

of  Baal. 
This  is  the  cross  I  must  bear ;  the  sin  and  the 

swift  retribution." 

VOL.  VI.  10 


2i8     The  Cotirtship  of  Miles  Standish 

So  through  the  Plymouth  woods  John  Alden 
went  on  his  errand  ; 

Crossing  the  brook  at  the  ford,  where  it  brawled 
over  pebble  and  shallow, 

Gathering  still,  as  he  went,  the  May-flowers  bloom 
ing  around  him, 

Fragrant,  filling  the  air  with  a  strange  and  wonder 
ful  sweetness, 

Children  lost  in  the  woods,  and  covered  with 
leaves  in  their  slumber. 

"  Puritan  flowers,"  he  said,  "  and  the  type  of  Puri 
tan  maidens, 

Modest  and  simple  and  sweet,  the  very  type  of 
Priscilla ! 

So  I  will  take  them  to  her ;  to  Priscilla  the  May 
flower  of  Plymouth, 

Modest  and  simple  and  sweet,  as  a  parting  gift 
will  I  take  them  ; 

Breathing  their  silent  farewells,  as  they  fade  and 
wither  and  perish, 

Soon  to  be  thrown  away  as  is  the  heart  of  the 
giver." 

So  through  the  Plymouth  woods  John  Alden  went 
on  his  errand ; 

Came  to  an  open  space,  and  saw  the  disk  of  the 
ocean, 

Sailless,  sombre  and  cold  with  the  comfortless 
breath  of  the  east-wind ; 

Saw  the  new-built  house,  and  people  at  work  in  a 
meadow ; 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish     219 

Heard,  as  he  drew  near  the  door,  the  musical  voice 
of  Priscilla 

Singing  the  hundredth  Psalm,  the  grand  old  Puri 
tan  anthem, 

Music  that  Luther  sang  to  the  sacred  words  of  the 
Psalmist, 

Full  of  the  breath  of  the  Lord,  consoling  and  com 
forting  many. 

Then,  as  he  opened  the  door,  he  beheld  the  form 
of  the  maiden 

Seated  beside  her  wheel,  and  the  carded  wool  like 
a  snow-drift 

Piled  at  her  knee,  her  white  hands  feeding  the 
ravenous  spindle, 

While  with  her  foot  on  the  treadle  she  guided  the 
wheel  in  its  motion. 

Open  wide  on  her  lap  lay  the  well-worn  psalm- 
book  of  Ainsworth, 

Printed  in  Amsterdam,  the  words  and  the  music 
together, 

Rough-hewn,  angular  notes,  like  stones  in  the  wall 
of  a  churchyard, 

Darkened  and  overhung  by  the  running  vine  of  the 
verses. 

Such  was  the  book  from  whose  pages  she  sang  the 
old  Puritan  anthem, 

She,  the  Puritan  girl,  in  the  solitude  of  the  forest, 

Making  the  humble  house  and  the  modest  apparel 
of  home-spun 


22O     The  Courtship  of  Miles   Standish 

Beautiful  with  her  beauty,  and  rich  with  the  wealth 

of  her  being ! 
Over  him  rushed,  like  a  wind  that  is  keen  and  cold 

and  relentless, 
Thoughts  of  what  might  have  been,  and  the  weight 

and  woe  of  his  errand  ; 
All  the  dreams  that  had  faded,  and  all  the  hopes 

that  had  vanished, 
All   his   life   henceforth   a  dreary  and   tenantless 

mansion, 
Haunted   by  vain   regrets,   and   pallid,    sorrowful 

faces. 
Still  he  said  to  himself,  and  almost  fiercely  he  said 

it, 
"  Let  not  him  that  putteth  his  hand  to  the  plough 

look  backwards ; 
Though  the  ploughshare  cut  through  the  flowers  of 

life  to  its  fountains, 
Though  it  pass  o'er  the  graves  of  the  dead  and  the 

hearths  of  the  living, 
It  is  the  will  of  the  Lord  ;  and  his  mercy  endureth 

forever ! " 

So  he  entered  the  house:  and  the  hum  of  the 

wheel  and  the  singing 
Suddenly  ceased  ;  for  Priscilla,  aroused  by  his  step 

on  the  threshold, 
Rose  as  he  entered,  and   gave  him  her  hand,  in 

signal  of  welcome, 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish     221 

Saying,  "I  knew  it  was  you,  when  I  heard  your 

step  in  the  passage  ; 
For  I  was  thinking  of  you,  as  I  sat  there  singing 

and  spinning." 
Awkward  and  dumb  with  delight,  that  a  thought 

of  him  had  been  mingled 
Thus  in  the  sacred  psalm,  that  came  from  the  heart 

of  the  maiden, 

Silent  before  her  he  stood,  and  gave  her  the  flow 
ers  for  an  answer, 
Finding  no  words  for  his  thought.     He  remembered 

that  day  in  the  winter, 
After  the  first  great  snow,  when  he  broke  a  path 

from  the  village, 
Reeling  and  plunging  along  through  the  drifts  that 

encumbered  the  doorway, 
Stamping  the  snow  from  his  feet  as  he  entered  the 

house,  and  Priscilla 
Laughed  at  his  snowy  locks,  and  gave  him  a  seat 

by  the  fireside, 
Grateful  and  pleased  to  know  he  had  thought  of 

her  in  the  snow-storm. 
Had  he  but  spoken  then  !  perhaps  not  in  vain  had 

he  spoken ; 
Now  it  was  all  too  late ;  the  golden  moment  had 

vanished ! 

So  he  stood  there  abashed,  and  gave  her  the  flow 
ers  for  an  answer. 


222     The  Courtship  of  Miles   Standish 

Then  they  sat  down  and  talked  of  the  birds  and 

the  beautiful  Spring-time, 
Talked  of  their  friends  at  home,  and   the   May 

Flower  that  sailed  on  the  morrow. 
"I  have  been  thinking  all  day,"  said  gently  the 

Puritan  maiden, 
"  Dreaming  all  night,  and  thinking  all  day,  of  the 

hedge-rows  of  England,  — 
They  are  in  blossom  now,  and  the  country  is  all 

like  a  garden ; 
Thinking  of  lanes  and  fields,  and  the  song  of  the 

lark  and  the  linnet, 
Seeing  the   village   street,   and   familiar   faces  of 

neighbors 

Going  about  as  of  old,  and  stopping  to  gossip  to 
gether, 
And,  at  the  end  of  the  street,  the  village  church, 

with  the  ivy 
Climbing  the  old  gray  tower,  and  the  quiet  graves 

in  the  churchyard. 
Kind  are  the  people  I  live  with,  and  dear  to  me 

my  religion ; 
Still  my  heart  is  so  sad,  that  I  wish  myself  back  in 

Old  England. 
You  will  say  it  is  wrong,  but  I  cannot  help  it :  I 

almost 
Wish  myself  back  in  Old  England,  I  feel  so  lonely 

and  wretched." 


The  Courtship  of  Miles   Standish     223 

Thereupon  answered  the  youth  :  "  Indeed  I  do 
not  condemn  you  ; 

Stouter  hearts  than  a  woman's  have  quailed  in  this 
terrible  winter. 

Yours  is  tender  and  trusting,  and  needs  a  stronger 
to  lean  on ; 

So  I  have  come  to  you  now,  with  an  offer  and  prof 
fer  of  marriage 

Made  by  a  good  man  and  true,  Miles  Standish  the 
Captain  of  Plymouth ! " 

Thus  he  delivered  his  message,  the  dexterous 
writer  of  letters,  — 

Did  not  embellish  the  theme,  nor  array  it  in  beau 
tiful  phrases, 

But  came  straight  to  the  point,  and  blurted  it  out 
like  a  school-boy ; 

Even  the  Captain  himself  could  hardly  have  said  it 
more  bluntly. 

Mute  with  amazement  and  sorrow,  Priscilla  the 
Puritan  maiden 

Looked  into  Alden's  face,  her  eyes  dilated  with 
wonder, 

Feeling  his  words  like  a  blow,  that  stunned  her 
and  rendered  her  speechless ; 

Till  at  length  she  exclaimed,  interrupting  the  omi 
nous  silence : 

"  If  the  great  Captain  of  Plymouth  is  so  very  eager 
to  wed  me, 


224     The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

Why   does   he   not  come   himself,   and   take   the 

trouble  to  woo  me  ? 
If  I   am  not  worth  the  wooing,  I  surely  am  not 

worth  the  winning !  " 
Then  John  Alden  began  explaining  and  smoothing 

the  matter, 
Making  it  worse  as  he  went,  by  saying  the  Captain 

was  busy,  — 
Had  no  time  for  such  things;  —  such  things!  the 

words  grating  harshly 
Fell  on  the  ear  of  Priscilla ;  and  swift  as  a  flash 

she  made  answer  : 
"  Has  he  no  time  for  such  things,  as  you  call  it, 

before  he  is  married, 
Would  he  be  likely  to  find  it,  or  make  it,  after  the 

wedding  ? 

That  is  the  way  with  you  men ;  you  don't  under 
stand  us,  you  cannot. 

When  you  have  made  up  your  minds,  after  think 
ing  of  this  one  and  that  one, 
Choosing,  selecting,  rejecting,  comparing  one  with 

another, 
Then  you  make  known  your  desire,  with  abrupt 

and  sudden  avowal, 
And  are  offended  and  hurt,  and  indignant  perhaps, 

that  a  woman 
Does  not  respond  at  once  to  a  love  that  she  never 

suspected, 

Does  not  attain  at  a  bound  the  height  to  which  you 
have  been  climbing. 


The  Courtship   of  Miles  Standish     225 

This  is  not  right  nor  just :  for  surely  a  woman's 

affection 
Is  not  a  thing  to  be  asked  for,  and  had  for  only 

the  asking. 
When  one  is  truly  in  love,  one  not  only  says  it,  but 

shows  it. 
Had  he  but  waited  awhile,  had  he  only  showed 

that  he  loved  me, 
Even   this  Captain   of  yours  —  who   knows  ?  —  at 

last  might  have  won  me, 
Old  and  rough  as  he  is ;  but  now  it   never   can 

happen." 

Still  John  Alden  went  on,  unheeding  the  words 
of  Priscilla, 

Urging  the  suit  of  his  friend,  explaining,  persuad 
ing,  expanding ; 

Spoke  of  his  courage  and  skill,  and  of  all  his  bat 
tles  in  Flanders, 

How  with  the  people  of  God  he  had  chosen  to  suf 
fer  affliction, 

How,  in  return  for  his  zeal,  they  had  made  him 
Captain  of  Plymouth ; 

He  was  a  gentleman  born,  could  trace  his  pedigree 
plainly 

Back  to  Hugh  Standish  of  Duxbury  Hall,  in  Lan 
cashire,  England, 

Who  was  the  son  of  Ralph,  and  the  grandson  of 

Thurston  de  Standish  ; 
VOL.  vi.  10*  o 


226     The  Courtsliip  of  Miles  Standish 

Heir  unto  vast  estates,  of  which  he  was  basely  de 
frauded, 

Still  bore  the  family  arms,  and  had  for  his  crest  a 
cock  argent 

Combed  and  wattled  gules,  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
blazon. 

He  was  a  man  of  honor,  of  noble  and  generous 
nature ; 

Though  he  was  rough,  he  was  kindly ;  she  knew 
how  during  the  winter 

He  had  attended  the  sick,  with  a  hand  as  gentle  as 
woman's ; 

Somewhat  hasty  and  hot,  he  could  not  deny  it,  and 
headstrong, 

Stern  as  a  soldier  might  be,  but  hearty,  and  placa 
ble  always, 

Not  to  be  laughed  at  and  scorned,  because  he  was 
little  of  stature ; 

For  he  was  great  of  heart,  magnanimous,  courtly, 
courageous ; 

Any  woman  in  Plymouth,  nay,  any  woman  in  Eng 
land, 

Might  be  happy  and  proud  to  be  called  the  wife  of 
Miles  Standish ! 

But  as  he  warmed  and  glowed,  in  his  simple  and 

eloquent  language, 

Quite  forgetful  of  self,  and  full  of  the  praise  of  his 
rival, 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish     227 

Archly  the  maiden  smiled,  and,  with  eyes  overrun 
ning  with  laughter, 

Said,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "  Why  don't  you  speak 
for  yourself,  John  ? " 


IV. 

JOHN   ALDEN 

INTO  the  open  air  John  Alden,  perplexed  and 
bewildered, 

Rushed  like  a  man  insane,  and  wandered  alone  by 
the  sea-side ; 

Paced  up  and  down  the  sands,  and  bared  his  head 
to  the  east-wind, 

Cooling  his  heated  brow,  and  the  fire  and  fever 
within  him. 

Slowly  as  out  of  the  heavens,  with  apocalyptical 
splendors, 

Sank  the  City  of  God,  in  the  vision  of  John  the 
Apostle, 

So,  with  its  cloudy  walls  of  chrysolite,  jasper,  and 
sapphire, 

Sank  the  broad  red  sun,  and  over  its  turrets  up 
lifted 

Glimmered  the  golden  reed  of  the  angel  who  meas 
ured  the  city. 


228     The  Courtship  of  Miles   Standish 

"  Welcome,  O  wind  of  the  East !  "  he  exclaimed 
in  his  wild  exultation, 

"  Welcome,  O  wind  of  the  East,  from  the  caves  of 
the  misty  Atlantic ! 

Blowing  o'er  fields  of  dulse,  and  measureless  mead 
ows  of  sea-grass, 

Blowing  o'er  rocky  wastes,  and  the  grottos  and 
gardens  of  ocean ! 

Lay  thy  cold,  moist  hand  on  my  burning  forehead, 
and  wrap  me 

Close  in  thy  garments  of  mist,  to  allay  the  fever 
within  me ! " 

Like  an  awakened  conscience,  the  sea  was  moan 
ing  and  tossing, 

Beating  remorseful  and  loud  the  mutable  sands  of 
the  sea-shore. 

Fierce  in  his  soul  was  the  struggle  and  tumult  of 
passions  contending ; 

Love  triumphant  and  crowned,  and  friendship 
wounded  and  bleeding, 

Passionate  cries  of  desire,  and  importunate  plead 
ings  of  duty ! 

"Is  it  my  fault,"  he  said,  "that  the  maiden  has 
chosen  between  us  ? 

Is  it  my  fault  that  he  failed,  —  my  fault  that  I  am 
the  victor  ? " 

Then  within  him  there  thundered  a  voice,  like  the 
voice  of  the  Prophet : 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish     229 

"  It  hath  displeased  the  Lord  !  "  —  and  he  thought 
of  David's  transgression, 

Bathsheba's  beautiful  face,  and  his  friend  in  the 
front  of  the  battle  ! 

Shame  and  confusion  of  guilt,  and  abasement  and 
self-condemnation, 

Overwhelmed  him  at  once;  and  he  cried  in  the 
deepest  contrition  : 

"  It  hath  displeased  the  Lord  !  It  is  the  tempta 
tion  of  Satan !  " 

Then,  uplifting  his  head,  he  looked  at  the  sea, 

and  beheld  there 
Dimly  the  shadowy  form  of  the  May  Flower  riding 

at  anchor, 
Rocked  on  the  rising  tide,  and  ready  to  sail  on  the 

morrow ; 

Heard  the  voices  of  men  through  the  mist,  the  rat 
tle  of  cordage 
Thrown  on  the  deck,  the  shouts  of  the  mate,  and 

the  sailors'  "  Ay,  ay,  Sir ! " 
Clear  and  distinct,  but  not  loud,  in  the  dripping 

air  of  the  twilight. 
Still   for   a  moment  he  stood,  and  listened,  and 

stared  at  the  vessel, 
Then  went  hurriedly  on,   as  one  who,  seeing  a 

phantom, 
Stops,   then   quickens  his   pace,  and  follows   the 

beckoning  shadow. 


The  Gmrtskif  of  Miles  StauKsk 


Yes»  it  is  plain  to  me  now,"  he  •••••••••••••l  -  tttbe 

band  of  die  Lord  is 

"_-;    ^::i  :;"     _:-.:\;r^. 
_;;  ::  =..:r. 

.::    :- 


".  .1.     -^      . .  i",    ,!-~.^      \~.  ~    -".    1_  *._!   "   ._    J--^.    1_~,  T  _L^ . .  ~  ^« 


I  go  o'er  die  ocean,  this  dreary  land  will 
i  _  —  _~- 1 
Her  whom  I  nay  not  kwe,  and  him  whom  my 

._•_..      .  JT    _    :       : 

nca*T  nas  oocnoeo. 
^  •:";:::   r-r  .  .  ...'    _r~i-    . .-   t-"t  _rr^;~    :._    :.v_r;_~.  - 

i"-^    ^  ^_~     _i2.. 
J.:rr  :y  -;    -.::/.;--   i.l;.  ir.i   i~:-j  ::\r  :_~:  ;:" 

~     .<;"  irt  i  . 
_:";•  ic    .-:.  i_.  i  :::_;:'--.-.  "_-.i~  .."  "...^  .." 

^  1 1 "  ~  I     1~I    -1-^7     i-~  I     _J"-r  i  i~-     lH    "--  v:      .1^-1     II 


Witk  me  my  secret  shall  Be,  Eke  a  boded  jewel 


i-  ^r  :-.!-:  -:vi:  :-    i-;-.  .'  v.t  ::.:.--.:-:. 
r.  ;-.  :-  i-  : 


..:        1:      :/.;      .V.  L  ~  ',  _  :      "       J      II     "_.r     _'.  il!      :r--l-^l. 


.he  spake, he  tTr«ifd, in  the  strength  of 

~~- ..  _:; : ._ 


The  Qmrtslup  if  MSa  Stmm&sk    231 


lit   ii:rt    111 


Tin  be  befadd  the  tigfals  m  Ac 


^  :•  i  -  _  _    -  -.iz  TT  i       -    i  :•  :  :    i..  i 


;.~_r_j  i_:_t,  _i_  i;>:r_-ri  ...  n-   m~:  i   ~i_-- 


Long  bzvc  yon  been  OB 


esxxnd,9  he  said 


Not  &r  off  is  Ac 


^  :  _:  t.  ;•;:  i :      .    i~.   . ..  :  *  _ ; :   :.  L~-  ~. 


":ii    Aliti   >7il-:;     111   ri.i'vi   n .t 


232     The  Courtship  of  Miles   Standish 

From  beginning  to  end,  minutely,  just  as  it  hap 
pened  ; 
How  he  had  seen  Priscilla,  and  how  he  had  sped 

in  his  courtship, 
Only  smoothing  a  little,   and  softening  down  her 

refusal. 
But  when  he  came  at  length  to  the  words  Priscilla 

had  spoken, 
Words  so  tender  and  cruel :  "Why.  don't  you  speak 

for  yourself,  John  ? " 
Up  leaped  the  Captain  of  Plymouth,  and  stamped 

on  the  floor,  till  his  armor 
Clanged  on  the  wall,  where  it  hung,  with  a  sound 

of  sinister  omen. 

All  his  pent-up  wrath  burst  forth  in  a  sudden  ex 
plosion, 
E'en  as  a  hand-grenade,  that  scatters  destruction 

around  it. 
Wildly  he  shouted,  and  loud  :  "  John  Alden  !  you 

have  betrayed  me ! 
Me,  Miles  Standish,  your  friend  !  have  supplanted, 

defrauded,  betrayed  me ! 
One  of  my  ancestors  ran  his  sword  through  the 

heart  of  Wat  Tyler  ; 
Who  shall  prevent  me  from  running  my  own  through 

the  heart  of  a  traitor  ? 
Yours  is  the  greater  treason,  for  yours  is  a  treason 

to  friendship ! 
You,  who  lived  under  my  roof,  whom  I  cherished 

and  loved  as  a  brother ; 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish      233 

You,  who  have  fed  at  my  board,  and  drunk  at  my 
cup,  to  whose  keeping 

I  have  intrusted  my  honor,  my  thoughts  the  most 
sacred  and  secret,  — 

You  too,  Brutus!  ah  woe  to  the  name  of  friend 
ship  hereafter ! 

Brutus  was  Caesar's  friend,  and  you  were  mine,  but 
henceforward 

Let  there  be  nothing  between  us  save  war,  and 
implacable  hatred  !  " 

So  spake  the  Captain  of  Plymouth,  and  strode 

about  in  the  chamber, 
Chafing  and  choking  with  rage ;  like  cords  were 

the  veins  on  his  temples. 
But  in  the  midst  of  his  anger  a  man  appeared  at 

the  doorway, 
Bringing  in  uttermost  haste  a  message  of  urgent 

importance, 
Rumors  of  danger  and  war  and  hostile  incursions 

of  Indians ! 

Straightway  the  Captain  paused,  and,  without  fur 
ther  question  or  parley, 
Took  from  the  nail  on  the  wall  his  sword  with  its 

scabbard  of  iron, 
Buckled  the  belt  round  his  waist,  and,   frowning 

fiercely,  departed. 
Alden  was  left  alone.     He  heard  the  clank  of  the 

scabbard 


234      The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

Growing  fainter  and  fainter,  and  dying  away  in  the 

distance. 
Then  he  arose  from  his  seat,  and  looked  forth  into 

the  darkness, 
Felt  the  cool  air  blow  on  his  cheek,  that  was  hot 

with  the  insult, 
Lifted  his  eyes  to  the   heavens,  and,   folding  his 

hands  as  in  childhood, 
Prayed  in  the  silence  of  night  to  the  Father  who 

seeth  in  secret 

Meanwhile  the  choleric  Captain  strode  wrathful 

away  to  the  council, 
Found   it  already  assembled,   impatiently  waiting 

his  coming ; 
Men  in  the  middle  of  life,  austere  and   grave  in 

deportment, 
Only  one  of  them  old,  the  hill  that  was  nearest  to 

heaven, 
Covered  with  snow,  but  erect,  the  excellent  Elder 

of  Plymouth. 
God  had  sifted  three  kingdoms  to  find  the  wheat 

for  this  planting, 
Then  had  sifted  the  wheat,  as  the  living  seed  of  a 

nation ; 
So  say  the  chronicles  old,  and  such  is  the  faith  of 

the  people ! 
Near  them  was  standing  an  Indian,  in  attitude  stern 

and  defiant, 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish       235 

Naked  down  to  the  waist,  and  grim  and  ferocious 

in  aspect ; 
While  on  the  table  before  them  was  lying  unopened 

a  Bible, 
Ponderous,  bound  in  leather,  brass-studded,  printed 

in  Holland, 
And  beside  it  outstretched  the  skin  of  a  rattlesnake 

glittered, 
Filled,  like  a  quiver,  with   arrows ;  a  signal   and 

challenge  of  warfare, 
Brought  by  the  Indian,  and  speaking  with  arrowy 

tongues  of  defiance. 
This  Miles   Standish  beheld,  as  he  entered,    and 

heard  them  debating 
What  were  an  answer  befitting  the  hostile  message 

and  menace, 
Talking  of  this  and  of  that,  contriving,  suggesting, 

objecting ; 
One  voice  only  for  peace,  and  that  the  voice  of  the 

Elder, 
Judging  it  wise  and  well  that  some  at  least  were 

converted, 

Rather  than  any  were  slain,  for  this  was  but  Chris 
tian  behavior ! 

Then  out  spake  Miles  Standish,  the  stalwart  Cap 
tain  of  Plymouth, 
Muttering  deep  in   his   throat,  for  his  voice  was 

husky  with  anger, 
"  What !  do  you  mean  to  make  war  with  milk  and 

the  water  of  roses? 


236      The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

Is  it  to  shoot  red  squirrels  you  have  your  howitzer 

planted 
There  on  the  roof  of  the  church,  or  is  it  to  shoot 

red  devils  ? 
Truly  the  only  tongue   that   is   understood   by  a 

savage 
Must  be  the  tongue  of  fire  that  speaks  from  the 

mouth  of  the  cannon  !  " 
Thereupon  answered  and  said  the  excellent  Elder 

of  Plymouth, 
Somewhat  amazed  and  alarmed  at  this  irreverent 

language : 
"Not  so  thought   Saint   Paul,  nor  yet  the  other 

Apostles ; 
Not  from  the  cannon's  mouth  were  the  tongues  of 

fire  they  spake  with  !  " 

But  unheeded  fell  this  mild  rebuke  on  the  Cap 
tain, 

Who  had  advanced  to  the  table,  and  thus  contin 
ued  discoursing : 
"Leave  this  matter  to  me,  for  to  me  by  right  it 

pertaineth. 
War  is  a  terrible  trade ;  but  in  the  cause  that  is 

righteous, 
Sweet  is  the  smell  of  powder ;  and  thus  I  answer 

the  challenge ! " 

Then  from  the  rattlesnake's  skin,  with  a  sudden, 
contemptuous  gesture, 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish      237 

Jerking  the  Indian  arrows,  he  filled  it  with  powder 

and  bullets 
Full  to  the  very  jaws,  and  handed  it  back  to  the 

savage, 
Saying,  in  thundering  tones  :  "  Here,  take  it !  this 

is  your  answer !  " 
Silently  out  of  the  room  then  glided  the  glistening 

savage, 
Bearing  the  serpent's  skin,  and   seeming  himself 

like  a  serpent, 
Winding  his  sinuous  way  in  the  dark  to  the  depths 

of  the  forest. 


V. 


THE   SAILING   OF    THE    MAY    FLOWER 

JUST  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  as  the  mists  uprose 
from  the  meadows, 

There  was  a  stir  and  a  sound  in  the  slumbering 
village  of  Plymouth ; 

Clanging  and  clicking  of  arms,  and  the  order  im 
perative,  "  Forward  ! " 

Given  in  tone  suppressed,  a  tramp  of  feet,  and  then 
silence. 

Figures  ten,  in  the  mist,  marched  slowly  out  of  the 
village. 


238      The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

Standish  the  stalwart  it  was,  with  eight  of  his  val 
orous  army, 

Led  by  their  Indian  guide,  by  Hobomok,  friend  of 
the  white  men, 

Northward  marching  to  quell  the  sudden  revolt  of 
the  savage. 

Giants  they  seemed  in  the  mist,  or  the  mighty  men 
of  King  David ; 

Giants  in  heart  they  were,  who  believed  in  God 
and  the  Bible,  — 

Ay,  who  believed  in  the  smiting  of  Midianites  and 
Philistines. 

Over  them  gleamed  far  off  the  crimson  banners  of 
morning ; 

Under  them  loud  on  the  sands,  the  serried  billows, 
advancing, 

Fired  along  the  line,  and  in  regular  order  retreat 
ed. 

Many  a  mile  had  they  marched,  when  at  length 
the  village  of  Plymouth 

Woke  from  its  sleep,  and  arose,  intent  on  its  mani 
fold  labors. 

Sweet  was  the  air  and  soft ;  and  slowly  the  smoke 
from  the  chimneys 

Rose  over  roofs  of  thatch,  and  pointed  steadily 
eastward ; 

Men  came  forth  from  the  doors,  and  paused  and 
talked  of  the  weather, 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish     239 

Said  that  the  wind  had  changed,  and  was  blowing 

fair  for  the  May  Flower ; 
Talked  of  their  Captain's  departure,  and   all  the 

dangers  that  menaced, 
He  being  gone,  the  town,  and  what  should  be  done 

in  his  absence. 
Merrily  sang  the  birds,  and  the  tender  voices  of 

women 
Consecrated  with  hymns  the  common  cares  of  the 

household. 
Out  of  the  sea  rose  the  sun,  and  the  billows  rejoiced 

at  his  coming  ; 
Beautiful  were  his  feet  on  the  purple  tops  of  the 

mountains ; 
Beautiful  on  the  sails  of  the  May  Flower  riding  at 

anchor, 
Battered  and  blackened  and  worn  by  all  the  storms 

of  the  winter. 

Loosely  against  her  masts  was  hanging  and  flap 
ping  her  canvas, 
Rent  by  so  many  gales,  and  patched  by  the  hands 

of  the  sailors. 
Suddenly  from  her  side,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the 

ocean, 
Darted  a  puff  of  smoke,  and  floated  seaward ;  anon 

rang 
Loud  over  field  and  forest  the  cannon's  roar,  and 

the  echoes 
Heard  and  repeated  the  sound,  the  signal-gun  of 

departure ! 


240      The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

Ah!  but  with  louder  echoes  replied  the  hearts  of 

the  people ! 
Meekly,  in  voices  subdued,  the  chapter  was  read 

from  the  Bible, 
Meekly  the  prayer  was  begun,  but  ended  in  fervent 

entreaty ! 
Then  from  their  houses   in   haste  came  forth  the 

Pilgrims  of  Plymouth, 
Men  and  women  and  children,  all  hurrying  down 

to  the  sea-shore, 
Eager,  with  tearful  eyes,  to  say  farewell  to  the  May 

Flower, 
Homeward  bound  o'er  the  sea,  and  leaving  them 

here  in  the  desert. 

Foremost  among  them  was  Alden.     All   night 

he  had  lain  without  slumber, 
Turning  and  tossing  about  in  the  heat  and  unrest 

of  his  fever. 
He  had  beheld   Miles    Standish,  who  came  back 

late  from  the  council, 
Stalking  into  the  room,  and.  heard  him  mutter  and 

murmur, 
Sometimes  it  seemed  a  prayer,  and  sometimes  it 

sounded  like  swearing. 
Once  he  had  come  to  the  bed,  and  stood  there  a 

moment  in  silence ; 
Then  he  had  turned  away,  and  said :  "  I  will  not 

awake  him ; 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish      241 

Let  him  sleep  on,  it  is  best ;  for  what  is  the  use  of 

more  talking ! " 
Then  he  extinguished  the  light,  and  threw  himself 

down  on  his  pallet, 
Dressed  as  he  was,  and  ready  to  start  at  the  break 

of  the  morning,  — 
Covered  himself  with  the  cloak  he  had  worn  in  his 

campaigns  in  Flanders, — 
Slept  as  a  soldier  sleeps  in  his  bivouac,  ready  for 

action. 
But  with  the  dawn  he  arose  ;  in  the  twilight  Alden 

beheld  him 
Put  on  his  corslet  of  steel,  and  all  the  rest  of  his 

armor, 

Buckle  about  his  waist  his  trusty  blade  of  Damas 
cus, 
Take  from  the  corner  his  musket,  and  so  stride  out 

of  the  chamber. 
Often   the   heart   of  the   youth  had  burned   and 

yearned  to  embrace  him, 
Often  his  lips  had  essayed  to  speak,  imploring  for 

pardon  ; 
All  the  old  friendship  came  back,  with  its  tender 

and  grateful  emotions  ; 

But  his  pride  overmastered  the  nobler  nature  with 
in  him,  — 
Pride,  and  the  sense  of  his  wrong,  and  the  burning 

fire  of  the  insult. 
So  he  beheld  his  friend  departing  in  anger,   but 

spake  not, 

VOL.  VI.  II  P 


242      The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

Saw  him  go  forth  to  danger,  perhaps  to  death,  and 

he  spake  not ! 
Then  he  arose  from  his  bed,  and  heard  what  the 

people  were  saying, 
Joined  in  the  talk  at  the  door,  with  Stephen  and 

Richard  and  Gilbert, " 
Joined  in  the  morning  prayer,  and  in  the  reading 

of  Scripture, 
And,  with  the  others,  in  haste  went  hurrying  down 

to  the  sea-shore, 
Down  to  the  Plymouth  Rock,  that  had  been   to 

their  feet  as  a  door-step 
Into  a  world   unknown,  —  the   corner-stone   of  a 

nation ! 

There  with  his  boat  was  the  Master,  already  a 

little  impatient 
Lest  he  should  lose  the  tide,  or  the  wind  might 

shut  to  the  eastward, 
Square-built,  hearty,   and  strong,  with  an  odor  of 

ocean  about  him, 
Speaking  with  this  one  and  that,  and  cramming 

letters  and  parcels 
Into  his  pockets  capacious,  and  messages  mingled 

together 

Into  his  narrow  brain,  till  at  last  he  was  wholly  be 
wildered. 
Nearer  the  boat  stood  Alden,  with  one  foot  placed 

on  the  gunwale, 


TJie  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish      243 

One  still  firm  on   the  rock,  and  talking  at  times 

with  the  sailors, 
Seated  erect  on  the  thwarts,  all  ready  and  eager  for 

starting. 
He  too  was  eager  to  go,  and  thus  put  an  end  to  his 

anguish, 
Thinking  to  fly  from  despair,  that  swifter  than  keel 

is  or  canvas, 
Thinking  to  drown  in  the  sea  the  ghost  that  would 

rise  and  pursue  him. 
But  as  he  gazed  on  the  crowd,  he  beheld  the  form 

of  Priscilla 
Standing  dejected  among  them,  unconscious  of  all 

that  was  passing. 
Fixed  were  her  eyes  upon  his,  as  if  she  divined  his 

intention, 

Fixed  with  a  look  so  sad,  so  reproachful,  implor 
ing,  and  patient, 
That  with  a  sudden  revulsion  his   heart  recoiled 

from  its  purpose, 
As  from  the  verge  of  a  crag,  where  one  step  more 

is  destruction. 

Strange  is  the  heart  of  man,  with  its  quick,  myste 
rious  instincts  ! 
Strange  is  the  life  of  man,  and  fatal  or  fated  are 

moments, 
Whereupon  turn,  as  on  hinges,  the  gates  of  the 

wall  adamantine  ! 
"  Here  I  remain ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  looked  at 

the  heavens  above  him, 


244     The  Courtship  of  Miles   Standish 

Thanking  the  Lord  whose  breath  had  scattered  the 

mist  and  the  madness, 
Wherein,  blind  and  lost,  to  death  he  was  staggering 

headlong. 
"  Yonder  snow-white  cloud,  that  floats  in  the  ether 

above  me, 
Seems  like  a  hand  that  is  pointing  and  beckoning 

over  the  ocean. 
There  is  another  hand,  that  is  not  so  spectral  and 

ghost-like, 
Holding  me,  drawing  me  back,  and  clasping  mine 

for  protection. 
Float,  O  hand  of  cloud,  and  vanish  away  in  the 

ether ! 
Roll  thyself  up  like  a  fist,  to  threaten  and  daunt 

me  ;  I  heed  not 
Either  your  warning  or  menace,  or  any  omen  of 

evil ! 
There  is  no  land  so  sacred,  no  air  so  pure  and  so 

wholesome, 
As  is  the  air  she  breathes,  and  the  soil  that  is 

pressed  by  her  footsteps. 
Here  for  her  sake  will  I  stay,  and  like  an  invisible 

presence 
Hover  around  her  forever,  protecting,  supporting 

her  weakness ; 
Yes !  as  my  foot  was  the  first  that  stepped  on  this 

rock  at  the  landing, 
So,  with  the  blessing  of  God,  shall  it  be  the  last  at 

the  leaving ! " 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish      245 

Meanwhile  the  Master  alert,  but  with  dignified 
air  and  important, 

Scanning  with  watchful  eye  the  tide  and  the  wind 
and  the  weather, 

Walked  about  on  the  sands  and  the  people  crowd 
ed  around  him 

Saying  a  few  last  words,  and  enforcing  his  careful 
remembrance. 

Then,  taking  each  by  the  hand,  as  if  he  were  grasp 
ing  a  tiller, 

Into  the  boat  he  sprang,  and  in  haste  shoved  off  to 
his  vessel, 

Glad  in  his  heart  to  get  rid  of  all  this  worry  and 
flurry, 

Glad  to  be  gone  from  a  land  of  sand  and  sickness 
and  sorrow, 

Short  allowance  of  victual,  and  plenty  of  nothing 
but  Gospel ! 

Lost  in  the  sound  of  the  oars  was  the  last  farewell 
of  the  Pilgrims. 

O  strong  hearts  and  true !  not  one  went  back  in 
the  May  Flower ! 

No,  not  one  looked  back,  who  had  set  his  hand  to 
this  ploughing ! 

Soon  were  heard  on  board  the  shouts  and  songs 

of  the  sailors 

Heaving  the  windlass  round,  and  hoisting  the  pon 
derous  anchor. 


246     The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

Then  the  yards  were  braced,  and  all  sails  set  to  the 

west-wind, 
Blowing  steady 'and  strong;  and  the  May  Flower 

sailed  from  the  harbor, 
Rounded  the  point  of  the  Gurnet,  and  leaving  far 

to  the  southward 
Island  and  cape  of  sand,  and  the  Field  of  the  First 

Encounter, 
Took  the  wind  on  her  quarter,  and  stood  for  the 

open  Atlantic, 
Borne  on  the  send  of  the  sea,  and  the  swelling 

hearts  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Long  in  silence  they  watched  the  receding  sail 

of  the  vessel, 
Much  endeared  to  them  all,  as  something  living 

and  human  ; 
Then,  as  if  filled  with  the  spirit,  and  wrapt  in  a 

vision  prophetic, 

Baring  his  hoary  head,  the  excellent  Elder  of  Ply 
mouth 
Said,  "  Let  us  pray !  "  and  they  prayed,  and  thanked 

the  Lord  and  took  courage. 
Mournfully  sobbed  the  waves  at  the  base  of  the 

rock,  and  above  them 
Bowed  and  whispered  the  wheat   on  the   hill   of 

death,  and  their  kindred 
Seemed  to  awake  in  their  graves,  and  to  join  in  the 

prayer  that  they  uttered. 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish     247 

Sun-illumined  and  white,  on  the  eastern  verge  of 
the  ocean 

Gleamed  the  departing  sail,  like  a  marble  slab  in  a 
graveyard ; 

Buried  beneath  it  lay  forever  all  hope  of  escap 
ing. 

Lo !  as  they  turned  to  depart,  they  saw  the  form 
of  an  Indian, 

Watching  them  from  the  hill ;  but  while  they  spake 
with  each  other, 

Pointing  with  outstretched  hands,  and  saying, 
"  Look !  "  he  had  vanished. 

So  they  returned  to  their  homes ;  but  Alden  lin 
gered  a  little, 

Musing  alone  on  the  shore,  and  watching  the  wash 
of  the  billows 

Round  the  base  of  the  rock,  and  the  sparkle  and 
flash  of  the  sunshine, 

Like  the  spirit  of  God,  moving  visibly  over  the 
waters. 


248     The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 


VI. 

PRISCILLA 

THUS  for  a  while  he  stood,  and  mused  by  the  shore 
of  the  ocean, 

Thinking  of  many  things,  and  most  of  all  of  Pris- 
cilla ; 

And  as  if  thought  had  the  power  to  draw  to  itself, 
like  the  loadstone, 

Whatsoever  it  touches,  by  subtile  laws  of  its  na 
ture, 

Lo !  as  he  turned  to  depart,  Priscilla  was  standing 
beside  him. 

"  Are  you  so  much  offended,  you  will  not  speak 

to  me  ? "  said  she. 
"Am  I  so  much  to  blame,  that   yesterday,  when 

you  were  pleading 
Warmly  the  cause  of  another,  my  heart,  impulsive 

and  wayward, 
Pleaded  your  own,  and  spake  out,  forgetful  perhaps 

of  decorum  ? 
Certainly  you   can    forgive   me   for  speaking    so 

frankly,  for  saying 
What  I  ought  not  to  have  said,  yet  now  I  can 

never  unsay  it ; 


The  Courtship  of  Miles   Standish     249 

For  there  are  moments  in  life,  when  the  heart  is  so 
full  of  emotion, 

That  if  by  chance  it  be  shaken,  or  into  its  depths 
like  a  pebble 

Drops  some  careless  word,  it  overflows,  and  its 
secret, 

Spilt  on  the  ground  like  water,  can  never  be  gath 
ered  together. 

Yesterday  I  was  shocked,  when  I  heard  you  speak 
of  Miles  Standish, 

Praising  his  virtues,  transforming  his  very  defects 
into  virtues, 

Praising  his  courage  and  strength,  and  even  his 
fighting  in  Flanders, 

As  if  by  righting  alone  you  could  win  the  heart  of 
a  woman, 

Quite  overlooking  yourself  and  the  rest,  in  exalt 
ing  your  hero. 

Therefore  I  spake  as  I  did,  by  an  irresistible  im 
pulse. 

You  will  forgive  me,  I  hope,  for  the  sake  of  the 
friendship  between  us, 

Which  is  too  true  and  too  sacred  to  be  so  easily 
broken ! " 

Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  the  scholar,  the 
friend  of  Miles  Standish  : 

"I  was  not  angry  with  you,  with  myself  alone  I 
was  angry, 

Seeing  how  badly  I  managed  the  matter  I  had  in 
my  keeping." 
n* 


250     The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

"  No  !  "  interrupted  the  maiden,  with  answer  prompt 

and  decisive  ; 
"  No ;  you  were  angry  with  me,  for  speaking  so 

frankly  and  freely. 
It  was  wrong,  I  acknowledge ;  for  it  is  the  fate  of 

a  woman 
Long  to  be  patient  and  silent,  to  wait  like  a  ghost 

that  is  speechless, 
Till  some  questioning  voice  dissolves  the  spell  of 

its  silence. 
Hence   is    the    inner   life   of   so   many  suffering 

women 
Sunless   and   silent   and   deep,  like   subterranean 

rivers 
Running  through   caverns   of  darkness,  unheard, 

unseen,  and  unfruitful, 
Chafing  their  channels  of  stone,  with  endless  and 

profitless  murmurs." 
Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  the  young  man, 

the  lover  of  women  : 
"  Heaven  forbid  it,  Priscilla ;  and  truly  they  seem 

to  me  always 
More  like   the  beautiful   rivers  that  watered   the 

garden  of  Eden, 
More  like  the  river  Euphrates,  through  deserts  of 

Havilah  flowing, 
Filling  the  land  with  delight,  and  memories  sweet 

of  the  garden  ! " 
"  Ah,  by  these  words,  I  can  see,"  again  interrupted 

the  maiden, 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish     251 

"  How  very  little  you  prize  me,  or  care  for  what  I 
am  saying. 

When  from  the  depths  of  my  heart,  in  pain  and 
with  secret  misgiving, 

Frankly  I  speak  to  you,  asking  for  sympathy  only 
and  kindness, 

Straightway  you  take  up  my  words,  that  are  plain 
and  direct  and  in  earnest, 

Turn  them  away  from  their  meaning,  and  answer 
with  flattering  phrases. 

This  is  not  right,  is  not  just,  is  not  true  to  the  best 
that  is  in  you  j 

For  I  know  and  esteem  you,  and  feel  that  your 
nature  is  noble, 

Lifting  mine  up  to  a  higher,  a  more  ethereal 
level. 

Therefore  I  value  your  friendship,  and  feel  it  per 
haps  the  more  keenly 

If  you  say  aught  that  implies  I  am  only  as  one 
among  many, 

If  you  make  use  of  those  common  and  compliment 
ary  phrases 

Most  men  think  so  fine,  in  dealing  and  speaking 
with  women, 

But  which  women  reject  as  insipid,  if  not  as  insult 
ing." 

Mute  and  amazed  was  Alden ;  and  listened  and 
looked  at  Priscilla, 


252     The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

Thinking  he  never  had  seen  her  more  fair,  more 

divine  in  her  beauty. 
He  who  but  yesterday  pleaded  so  glibly  the  cause 

of  another, 
Stood  there  embarrassed  and  silent,  and  seeking  in 

vain  for  an  answer. 

So  the  maiden  went  on,  and  little  divined  or  im 
agined 
What  was  at  work  in  his  heart,  that  made  him  so 

awkward  and  speechless. 
"  Let  us,  then,  be  what  we  are,  and  speak  what  we 

think,  and  in  all  things 

Keep  ourselves  loyal  to  truth,  and  the  sacred  pro 
fessions  of  friendship. 
It  is  no  secret  I  tell  you,  nor  am  I  ashamed  to 

declare  it : 
I  have  liked  to  be  with  you,  to  see  you,  to  speak 

with  you  always. 
So  I  was  hurt  at  your  words,  and  a  little  affronted 

to  hear  you 
Urge   me  to   marry  your  friend,  though  he  were 

the  Captain  Miles  Standish. 
For  I  must  tell  you  the  truth  :  much  more  to  me  is 

your  friendship 
Than  all  the  love  he  could  give,  were  he  twice  the 

hero  you  think  him." 
Then   she   extended   her  hand,   and  Alden,  who 

eagerly  grasped  it, 
Felt  all  the  wounds  in  his  heart,  that  were  aching 

and  bleeding  so  sorely, 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish     253 

Healed  by  the  touch  of  that  hand,  and  he  said, 

with  a  voice  full  of  feeling  : 
"  Yes,  we  must  ever  be  friends ;  and  of  all  who 

offer  you  friendship 
Let  me  be  ever  the  first,  the  truest,  the  nearest  and 

dearest ! " 

Casting  a  farewell  look  at  the  glimmering  sail  of 
the  May  Flower, 

Distant,  but  still  in  sight,  and  sinking  below  the 
horizon, 

Homeward  together  they  walked,  with  a  strange, 
indefinite  feeling, 

That  all  the  rest  had  departed  and  left  them  alone 
in  the  desert. 

But,  as  they  went  through  the  fields  in  the  blessing 
and  smile  of  the  sunshine, 

Lighter  grew  their  hearts,  and  Priscilla  said  very 
archly : 

"  Now  that  our  terrible  Captain  has  gone  in  pursuit 
of  the  Indians, 

Where  he  is  happier  far  than  he  would  be  com 
manding  a  household, 

You  may  speak  boldly,  and  tell  me  of  all  that  hap 
pened  between  you, 

When  you  returned  last  night,  and  said  how  un 
grateful  you  found  me." 

Thereupon  answered  John  Alden,  and  told  her  the 
whole  of  the  story,  — 


254      The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

Told  her  his  own  despair,  and  the  direful  wrath  of 

Miles  Standish. 
Whereat  the   maiden   smiled,    and   said   between 

laughing  and  earnest, 
"He  is   a  little   chimney,  and   heated   hot  in   a 

moment ! " 
But  as  he  gently  rebuked  her,  and  told  her  how  he 

had  suffered,  — 
How  he  had  even  determined  to  sail  that  day  in 

the  May  Flower, 
And  had  remained   for  her  sake,  on  hearing  the 

dangers  that  threatened,  — 
All  her  manner  was  changed,  and  she  said  with  a 

faltering  accent, 
"  Truly  I  thank  you  for  this  :  how  good  you  have 

been  to  me  always ! " 

Thus,  as  a  pilgrim  devout,  who  toward  Jerusalem 

journeys, 
Taking  three  steps  in  advance,  and  one  reluctantly 

backward, 
Urged  by  importunate  zeal,  and  withheld  by  pangs 

of  contrition ; 
Slowly  but    steadily  onward,   receding    yet   ever 

advancing, 
Journeyed  this  Puritan  youth  to  the  Holy  Land  of 

his  longings, 
Urged  by   the   fervor   of  love,  and   withheld   by 

remorseful  misgivings. 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish      255 


VII. 

THE   MARCH   OF   MILES   STANDISH 

MEANWHILE    the    stalwart    Miles    Standish   was 

marching  steadily  northward, 
Winding  through  forest  and  swamp,  and  along  the 

trend  of  the  sea-shore, 
All  day  long,  with  hardly  a  halt,  the  fire  of  his 

anger 
Burning  and  crackling  within,  and  the  sulphurous 

odor  of  powder 
Seeming  more  sweet  to  his  nostrils  than  all  the 

scents  of  the  forest. 
Silent  and  moody  he  went,  and  much  he  revolved 

his  discomfort ; 
He  who  was  used  to  success,  and  to  easy  victories 

always, 
Thus  to  be  flouted,  rejected,  and  laughed  to  scorn 

by  a  maiden, 
Thus  to  be  mocked  and  betrayed  by  the  friend 

whom  most  he  had  trusted  ! 
Ah !  't  was  too  much  to  be  borne,  and  he  fretted 

and  chafed  in  his  armor ! 

"  I  alone  am  to  blame,"  he  muttered,  "  for  mine 
was  the  folly. 


256      The  CourtsJdp  of  Miles  Standish 

What  has  a  rough  old  soldier,  grown  grim  and 

gray  in  the  harness, 
Used  to  the  camp  and  its  ways,  to  do  with  the 

wooing  of  maidens  ? 
'T  was  but  a  dream,  —  let  it  pass,  —  let  it  vanish 

like  so  many  others  ! 
What  I  thought  was  a  flower,  is  only  a  weed,  and 

is  worthless ; 
Out  of  my  heart  will  I  pluck  it,  and  throw  it  away, 

and  henceforward 
Be  but  a  fighter  of  battles,  a  lover  and  wooer  of 

dangers ! " 
Thus  he  revolved  in  his  mind  his  sorry  defeat  and 

discomfort, 
While  he  was  marching  by  day  or  lying  at  night  in 

the  forest, 
Looking  up   at  the  trees,  and  the  constellations 

beyond  them. 

After  a  three  days'  march  he  came  to  an  Indian 

encampment 
Pitched  on  the  edge  of  a  meadow,  between  the  sea 

and  the  forest ; 
Women  at  work  by  the  tents,  and  the  warriors, 

horrid  with  war-paint, 
Seated   about   a  fire,   and    smoking   and  talking 

together ; 
Who,  when  they  saw  from  afar  the  sudden  approach 

of  the  white  men, 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish       257 

Saw  the  flash  of  the  sun  on  breastplate  and  sabre 

and  musket, 
Straightway  leaped   to  their   feet,  and    two,  from 

among  them  advancing, 
Came  to  parley  with  Standish,  and  offer  him  furs 

as  a  present ; 
Friendship  was  in  their  looks,  but  in  their  hearts 

there  was  hatred. 

Braves  of  the  tribe  were  these,  and  brothers  gigan 
tic  in  stature, 
Huge  as  Goliath  of  Gath,  or  the  terrible  Og,  king 

of  Bashan ; 
One  was  Pecksuot  named,  and  the  other  was  called 

Wattawamat. 
Round  their  necks  were  suspended  their  knives  in 

scabbards  of  wampum, 
Two-edged,  trenchant  knives,  with  points  as  sharp 

as  a  needle. 
Other  arms  had  they  none,  for  they  were  cunning 

and  crafty. 
"  Welcome,    English ! "   they    said,  —  these  words 

they  had  learned  from  the  traders 
Touching  at   times   on   the  coast,  to  barter  and 

chaffer  for  peltries. 
Then  in  their  native  tongue  they  began  to  parley 

with  Standish, 
Through   his    guide   and    interpreter,   Hobomok, 

friend  of  the  white  man, 
Begging  for  blankets  and  knives,  but  mostly  for 

muskets  and  powder, 

VOL.  VI.  Q 


258      The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

Kept  by  the  white  man,  they  said,  concealed,  with 

the  plague,  in  his  cellars, 
Ready  to  be  let  loose,  and  destroy  his  brother  the 

red  man  ! 
But  when   Standish   refused,   and   said   he  would 

give  them  the  Bible, 
Suddenly  changing  their  tone,  they  began  to  boast 

and  to  bluster. 
Then  Wattawamat  advanced  with  a  stride  in  front 

of  the  other, 
And,  with  a  lofty  demeanor,  thus  vauntingly  spake 

to  the  Captain : 
"  Now  Wattawamat  can  see,  by  the  fiery  eyes  of 

the  Captain, 
Angry  is  he  in  his  heart ;   but  the  heart  of  the 

brave  Wattawamat 
Is  not  afraid  at  the  sight.      He  was  not  born  of  a 

woman, 
But  on  a  mountain,  at  night,  from  an  oak-tree  riven 

by  lightning, 
Forth  he  sprang  at  a  bound,  with  all  his  weapons 

about  him, 
Shouting,  'Who  is   there  here   to  fight  with   the 

brave  Wattawamat  ? ' ' 
Then  he  unsheathed  his  knife,  and,  whetting  the 

blade  on  his  left  hand, 
Held  it  aloft  and  displayed  a  woman's  face  on  the 

handle, 
Saying,  with  bitter  expression  and  look  of  sinister 

meaning : 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish       259 

"  I  have  another  at  home,  with  the  face  of  a  man 

on  the  handle ; 
By  and  by  they  shall  marry;  and  there  will  be 

plenty  of  children ! " 

Then  stood  Pecksuot  forth,  self-vaunting,  insult 
ing  Miles  Standish : 

While  with  his  fingers  he  patted  the  knife  that 
hung  at  his  bosom, 

Drawing  it  half  from  its  sheath,  and  plunging  it 
back,  as  he  muttered, 

"  By  and  by  it  shall  see ;  it  shall  eat ;  ah,  ha !  but 
shall  speak  not ! 

This  is  the  mighty  Captain  the  white  men  have 
sent  to  destroy  us  ! 

He  is  a  little  man ;  let  him  go  and  work  with  the 
women ! " 

Meanwhile  Standish  had   noted   the  faces  and 

figures  of  Indians 
Peeping  and  creeping  about  from  bush  to  tree  in 

the  forest, 
Feigning  to  look  for  game,  with  arrows  set  on  their 

bow-strings, 
Drawing  about  him  still  closer  and  closer  the  net 

of  their  ambush. 
But    undaunted    he    stood,   and   dissembled   and 

treated  them  smoothly ; 
So  the  old  chronicles  say,  that  were  writ  in  the 

days  of  the  fathers. 


260      The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

But  when  he  heard  their  defiance,  the  boast,  the 

taunt,  and  the  insult, 
All  the  hot  blood  of  his  race,  of  Sir  Hugh  and  of 

Thurston  de  Standish, 
Boiled  and  beat  in  his  heart,  and  swelled  in  the 

veins  of  his  temples. 
Headlong  he  leaped  on  the  boaster,  and,  snatching 

his  knife  from  its  scabbard, 
Plunged  it  into  his  heart,  and,  reeling  backward, 

the  savage 

Fell  with  his  face  to  the  sky,  and  a  fiendlike  fierce 
ness  upon  it. 
Straight   there   arose   from    the   forest  the   awful 

sound  of  the  war-whoop, 
And,  like  a  flurry  of  snow  on  the  whistling  wind 

of  December, 

Swift  and  sudden  and  keen  came  a  flight  of  feath 
ery  arrows. 
Then  came  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and  out  of  the  cloud 

came  the  lightning, 
Out  of  the  lightning  thunder ;   and  death  unseen 

ran  before  it. 
Frightened  the  savages  fled  for  shelter  in  swamp 

and  in  thicket, 
Hotly  pursued  and  beset ;  but  their  sachem,  the 

brave  Wattawamat, 
Fled   not;  he  was  dead.     Unswerving  and  swift 

had  a  bullet 
Passed  through  his  brain,  and   he  fell  with  both 

hands  clutching  the  greensward, 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish      261 

Seeming  in  death  to  hold  back  from  his  foe  the 
land  of  his  fathers. 

There  on  the  flowers  of  the  meadow  the  warriors 

lay,  and  above  them, 
Silent,  with  folded  arms,  stood  Hobomok,  friend  of 

the  white  man. 
Smiling   at  length  he  exclaimed   to   the   stalwart 

Captain  of  Plymouth : 
"  Pecksuot  bragged  very  loud,  of  his  courage,  his 

strength,  and  his  stature,  — 
Mocked  the  great  Captain,  and  called  him  a  little 

man ;  but  I  see  now 
Big  enough  have  you  been  to  lay  him  speechless 

before  you ! " 

Thus  the  first  battle  was  fought  and  won  by  the 

stalwart  Miles  Standish. 
When   the   tidings    thereof  were  brought   to   the 

village  of  Plymouth, 
And   as  a  trophy  of  war  the  head  of  the  brave 

Wattawamat 
Scowled  from  the  roof  of  the  fort,  which  at  once 

was  a  church  and  a  fortress, 
All  who  beheld  it  rejoiced,  and  praised  the  Lord, 

and  took  courage. 
Only  Priscilla  averted  her  face  from  this  spectre  of 

terror, 
Thanking  God   in    her  heart  that    she  had    not 

married  Miles  Standish ; 


262      The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

Shrinking,  fearing  almost,  lest,  coming  home  from 

his  battles, 
He  should  lay  claim  to  her  hand,  as  the  prize  and 

reward  of  his  valor. 


VIII. 

THE   SPINNING-WHEEL 

MONTH  after  month  passed  away,  and  in  Autumn 

the  ships  of  the  merchants 
Came  with  kindred  and  friends,  with  cattle  and 

corn  for  the  Pilgrims. 
All  in  the  village  was  peace ;  the  men  were  intent 

on  their  labors, 
Busy  with  hewing  and  building,   with  garden-plot 

and  with  merestead, 
Busy  with  breaking  the   glebe,  and   mowing   the 

grass  in  the  meadows, 
Searching  the  sea  for  its  fish,  and  hunting  the  deer 

in  the  forest. 

All  in  the  village  was  peace ;  but  at  times  the  ru 
mor  of  warfare 
Filled  the  air  with  alarm,  and  the  apprehension  of 

danger. 
Bravely  the   stalwart   Standish  was   scouring  the 

land  with  his  forces, 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish      263 

Waxing  valiant  in  fight  and  defeating  the  alien 
armies, 

Till  his  name  had  become  a  sound  of  fear  to  the 
nations. 

Anger  was  still  in  his  heart,  but  at  times  the  re 
morse  and  contrition 

Which  in  all  noble  natures  succeed  the  passionate 
outbreak, 

Came  like  a  rising  tide,  that  encounters  the  rush  of 
a  rive., 

Staying  its  current  awhile,  but  making  it  bitter  and 
brackish. 

Meanwhile  Alden  at  home  had  built  him  a  new 

habitation, 
Solid,  substantial,  of  timber  rough-hewn  from  the 

firs  of  the  forest. 
Wooden-barred  was  the  door,  and   the   roof  was 

covered  with  rushes ; 
Latticed  the  windows  were,  and  the  window-panes 

were  of  paper, 
Oiled  to  admit  the  light,  while  wind  and  rain  were 

excluded. 
There  too  he  dug  a  well,  and  around  it  planted  an 

orchard : 
Still  may  be  seen  to  this  day  some  trace  of  the  well 

and  the  orchard. 
Close  to  the  house  was  the  stall,  where,  safe  and 

secure  from  annoyance, 


264     The  Courtship  of  Miles   Standish 

Raghorn,  the  snow-white  bull,  that  had  fallen  to 

Alden's  allotment 
In  the  division  of  cattle,  might  ruminate   in   the 

night-time 
Over  the  pastures  he  cropped,  made  fragrant  by 

sweet  pennyroyal. 

Oft  when  his  labor  was  finished,  with  eager  feet 

would  the  dreamer 
Follow  the  pathway  that  ran  through  the  woods  to 

the  house  of  Priscilla, 
Led  by  illusions  romantic  and  subtile  deceptions 

of  fancy, 

Pleasure  disguised  as  duty,  and  love  in  the  sem 
blance  of  friendship. 
Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when   he   fashioned  the 

walls  of  his  dwelling ; 
Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  delved  in  the  soil 

of  his  garden  ; 
Ever  of  her  he  thought,  when  he  read  in  his  Bible 

on  Sunday 
Praise  of  the  virtuous  woman,  as  she  is  described 

in  the  Proverbs,  — 
How  the  heart  of  her  husband  doth  safely  trust  in 

her  always, 
How  all  the  days  of  her  life  she  will  do  him  good, 

and  not  evil, 
How  she  seeketh  the  wool  and  the  flax  and  work- 

eth  with  gladness, 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish     265 

How  she  layeth  her  hand  to  the  spindle  and  hold- 
eth  the  distaff, 

How  she  is  not  afraid  of  the  snow  for  herself  or 
her  household, 

Knowing  her  household  are  clothed  with  the  scar 
let  cloth  of  her  weaving ! 

So  as  she  sat  at  her  wheel  one  afternoon  in  the 
Autumn, 

Alden,  who  opposite  sat,  and  was  watching  her 
dexterous  fingers, 

As  if  the  thread  she  was  spinning  were  that  of  his 
life  and  his  fortune, 

After  a  pause  in  their  talk,  thus  spake  to  the  sound 
of  the  spindle. 

"Truly,  Priscilla,"  he  said,  "when  I  see  you  spin 
ning  and  spinning, 

Never  idle  a  moment,  but  thrifty  and  thoughtful 
of  others, 

Suddenly  you  are  transformed,  are  visibly  changed 

in  a  moment ; 

u  are  no  longer  Priscilla,  but  Bertha  the  Beauti 
ful  Spinner." 

Here  the  light  foot  on  the  treadle  grew  swifter  and 
swifter ;  the  spindle 

Uttered  an  angry  snarl,  and  the  thread  snapped 
short  in  her  fingers  ; 

While  the  impetuous  speaker,  not  heeding  the  mis 
chief,  continued  : 

VOL.  VI.  12 


266     The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

"You  are  the  beautiful  Bertha,  the  spinner,  the 
queen  of  Helvetia ; 

She  whose  story  I  read  at  a  stall  in  the  streets  of 
Southampton, 

Who,  as  she  rode  on  her  palfrey,  o'er  valley  and 
meadow  and  mountain, 

Ever  was  spinning  her  thread  from  a  distaff  fixed 
to  her  saddle. 

She  was  so  thrifty  and  good,  that  her  name  passed 
into  a  proverb. 

So  shall  it  be  with  your  own,  when  the  spinning- 
wheel  shall  no  longer 

Hum  in  the  house  of  the  farmer,  and  fill  its  cham 
bers  with  music. 

Then  shall  the  mothers,  reproving,  relate  how  it 
was  in  their  childhood, 

Praising  the  good  old  times,  and  the  days  of  Pris- 
cilla  the  spinner  !  " 

Straight  uprose  from  her  wheel  the  beautiful  Pu 
ritan  maiden, 

Pleased  with  the  praise  of  her  thrift  from  him 
whose  praise  was  the  sweetest, 

Drew  from  the  reel  on  the  table  a  snowy  skein  of 
her  spinning, 

Thus  making  answer,  meanwhile,  to  the  flattering 
phrases  of  Alden  : 

"  Come,  you  must  not  be  idle ;  if  I  am  a  pattern 
for  housewives, 

Show  yourself  equally  worthy  of  being  the  model  of 
husbands. 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish     267 

Hold  this  skein  on  your  hands,  while  I  wind  it, 

ready  for  knitting ; 
Then  who  knows  but  hereafter,  when  fashions  have 

changed  and  the  manners, 
Fathers  may  talk  to  their  sons  of  the  good  old 

times  of  John  Alden  ! " 
Thus,  with  a  jest  and  a  laugh,  the  skein  on  his 

hands  she  adjusted, 
He  sitting  awkwardly  there,  with  his  arms  extended 

before  him, 
She  standing  graceful,  erect,  and  winding  the  thread 

from  his  fingers, 
Sometimes  chiding  a  little  his  clumsy  manner  of 

holding, 
Sometimes  touching  his  hands,  as  she  disentangled 

expertly 
Twist   or  knot  in  the  yarn,  unawares  —  for  how 

could  she  help  it  ?  — 
Sending  electrical  thrills  through  every  nerve  in  his 

body. 

Lo !  in  the  midst  of  this  scene,  a  breathless  mes 
senger  entered, 

Bringing  in  hurry  and  heat  the  terrible  news  from 
the  village. 

Yes  ;  Miles  Standish  was  dead  !  —  an  Indian  had 
brought  them  the  tidings,  — 

Slain  by  a  poisoned  arrow,  shot  down  in  the  front 
of  the  battle, 


268     The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

Into  an  ambush  beguiled,  cut  off  with  the  whole  of 

his  forces  ; 
All  the  town  would  be  burned,  and  all  the  people 

be  murdered ! 
Such  were   the  tidings  of  evil  that  burst  on  the 

hearts  of  the  hearers. 

Silent  and  statue-like  stood  Priscilla,  her  face  look 
ing  backward 
Still  at  the  face  of  the  speaker,  her  arms  uplifted  in 

horror ; 
But  John  Alden,  upstarting,  as  if  the  barb  of  the 

arrow 
Piercing  the  heart  of  his  friend  had  struck  his  own, 

and  had  sundered 
Once  and  forever  the  bonds  that  held  him  bound 

as  a  captive, 
Wild  with  excess  of  sensation,  the  awful  delight  of 

his  freedom, 
Mingled  with  pain  and  regret,  unconscious  of  what 

he  was  doing, 
Clasped,  almost  with  a  groan,  the  motionless  form 

of  Priscilla, 
Pressing  her  close  to  his  heart,  as  forever  his  own, 

and  exclaiming  : 
"Those  whom  the  Lord  hath  united,  let  no  man 

put  them  asunder !  " 

Even  as  rivulets  twain,  from  distant  and  sepa 
rate  sources, 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish     269 

Seeing  each  other  afar,  as  they  leap  from  the  rocks, 

and  pursuing 
Each  one  its  devious  path,  but  drawing  nearer  and 

nearer, 
Rush  together  at  last,  at  their  trysting-place  in  the 

forest ; 
So  these  lives  that  had  run  thus  far  in  separate 

channels, 
Coming  in  sight  of  each  other,  then  swerving  and 

flowing  asunder, 
Parted  by  barriers  strong,  but  drawing  nearer  and 

nearer, 
Rushed  together  at  last,  and  one  was  lost  in  the 

other. 


IX. 

THE   WEDDING-DAY 

FORTH  from  the  curtain  of  clouds,  from  the  tent  of 
purple  and  scarlet, 

Issued  the  sun,  the  great  High-Priest,  in  his  gar 
ments  resplendent, 

Holiness  unto  the  Lord,  in  letters  of  light,  on  his 
forehead, 

Round  the  hem  of  his  robe  the  golden  bells  and 
pomegranates. 


2/o     The  Courtship  of  Miles   Standish 

Blessing  the  world  he  came,  and  the  bars  of  vapor 

beneath  him 
Gleamed  like  a  grate  of  brass,  and  the  sea  at  his 

feet  was  a  laver ! 

This   was   the  wedding   morn   of  Priscilla   the 

Puritan  maiden. 
Friends  were  assembled  together;  the  Elder  and 

Magistrate  also 
Graced  the  scene  with  their  presence,  and  stood 

like  the  Law  and  the  Gospel, 
One  with  the  sanction  of  earth  and  one  with  the 

blessing  of  heaven. 
Simple  and  brief  was  the  wedding,  as  that  of  Ruth 

and  of  Boaz. 
Softly   the  youth   and   the   maiden   repeated   the 

words  of  betrothal, 
Taking  each  other  for  husband   and  wife  in  the 

Magistrate's  presence, 
After  the  Puritan  way,  and  the  laudable  custom  of 

Holland. 
Fervently  then,  and  devoutly,  the  excellent  Elder 

of  Plymouth 
Prayed  for  the  hearth  and  the  home,  that  were 

founded  that  day  in  affection, 
Speaking  of  life  and  of  death,  and  imploring  divine 

benedictions. 

Lo !   when   the   service  was  ended,  a  form   ap 
peared  on  the  threshold, 


The  Courtship  of  Miles   Standish     271 

Clad   in   armor  of  steel,  a  sombre  and   sorrowful 

figure ! 
Why  does  the  bridegroom  start  and  stare  at  the 

strange  apparition? 
Why  does  the  bride  turn  pale,  and  hide  her  face  on 

his  shoulder? 

Is  it  a  phantom  of  air,  —  a  bodiless,  spectral  illu 
sion? 
Is  it  a  ghost  from   the   grave,  that  has  come  to 

forbid  the  betrothal  ? 
Long  had  it  stood  there  unseen,  a  guest  uninvited, 

unwelcomed ; 
Over  its  clouded  eyes  there  had  passed  at  times 

an  expression 
Softening  the  gloom  and  revealing  the  warm  heart 

hidden  beneath  them, 
As  when  across  the  sky  the  driving   rack  of  the 

rain-cloud 
Grows  for  a  moment  thin,  and  betrays  the  sun  by 

its  brightness. 
Once  it  had  lifted  its  hand,  and  moved  its  lips,  but 

was  silent, 

As  if  an  iron  will  had  mastered  the  fleeting  inten 
tion. 
But  when  were  ended  the  troth  and  the  prayer  and 

the  last  benediction, 
Into  the  room  it  strode,  and  the  people  beheld 

with  amazement 
Bodily   there   in    his   armor   Miles   Standish,   the 

Captain  of  Plymouth ! 


272      The  Courtsltip  of  Miles   Standish 

Grasping   the    bridegroom's    hand,    he    said   with 

emotion,  "  Forgive  me  ! 
I  have  been  angry  and  hurt,  —  too  long  have  I 

cherished  the  feeling ; 
I  have  been  cruel  and  hard,  but  now,  thank  God ! 

it  is  ended. 
Mine  is  the  same  hot  blood  that  leaped   in   the 

veins  of  Hugh  Standish, 
Sensitive,  swift  to  resent,  but  as  swift  in  atoning  for 

error. 
Never  so  much  as  now  was   Miles   Standish   the 

friend  of  John  Alden." 
Thereupon  answered  the  bridegroom  :  "  Let  all  be 

forgotten  between  us,  — 
All  save  the  dear,  old   friendship,  and   that  shall 

grow  older  and  dearer !  " 
Then  the  Captain  advanced,  and,  bowing,  saluted 

Priscilla, 
Gravely,   and   after   the   manner  of  old-fashioned 

gentry  in  England, 
Something  of  camp  and  of  court,  of  town  and  of 

country,  commingled, 
Wishing  her  joy  of  her  wedding,  and  loudly  lauding 

her  husband. 

Then  he  said  with  a  smile  :  "  I  should  have  remem 
bered  the  adage,  — 
If  you  would    be  well    served,   you   must   serve 

yourself;  and  moreover, 
No  man  can  gather  cherries  in  Kent  at  the  season 

of  Christmas  ! " 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish     273 

Great  was  the  people's  amazement,  and  greater 
yet  their  rejoicing, 

Thus  to  behold  once  more  the  sun-burnt  face  of 
their  Captain, 

Whom  they  had  mourned  as  dead ;  and  they 
gathered  and  crowded  about  him, 

Eager  to  see  him  and  hear  him,  forgetful  of  bride 
and  of  bridegroom, 

Questioning,  answering,  laughing,  and  each  inter 
rupting  the  other, 

Till  the  good  Captain  declared,  being  quite  over 
powered  and  bewildered, 

He  had  rather  by  far  break  into  an  Indian  en 
campment, 

Than  come  again  to  a  wedding  to  which  he  had 
not  been  invited. 

Meanwhile  the  bridegroom  went  forth  and  stood 

with  the  bride  at  the  doorway, 
Breathing    the  perfumed   air  of  that  warm   and 

beautiful  morning. 
Touched  with  autumnal  tints,  but  lonely  and  sad 

in  the  sunshine, 
Lay  extended  before  them  the  land  of  toil  and 

privation ; 
There  were  the  graves  of  the  dead,  and  the  barren 

waste  of  the  sea-shore, 
There  the  familiar  fields,  the  groves  of  pine,  and 

the  meadows ; 

VOL.  VI.  12*  R 


274     The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish 

But  to  their  eyes  transfigured,  it  seemed  as  the 

Garden  of  Eden, 
Filled  with  the  presence  of  God,  whose  voice  was 

the  sound  of  the  ocean. 

Soon  was  their  vision  disturbed  by  the  noise  and 

stir  of  departure, 
Friends  coming  forth  from  the  house,  and  impatient 

of  longer  delaying, 
Each  with  his  plan  for  the  day,  and  the  work  that 

was  left  uncompleted. 
Then  from  a  stall  near  at  hand,  amid  exclamations 

of  wonder, 
Alden   the  thoughtful,  the   careful,  so   happy,   so 

proud  of  Priscilla, 
Brought  out  his  snow-white  bull,  obeying  the  hand 

of  its  master, 
Led  by  a  cord  that  was  tied  to  an  iron  ring  in  its 

nostrils, 
Covered  with  crimson  cloth,  and  a  cushion  placed 

for  a  saddle. 
She  should  not  walk,  he  said,  through  the  dust  and 

heat  of  the  noonday ; 
Nay,  she  should  ride  like  a  queen,  not  plod  along 

like  a  peasant. 
Somewhat  alarmed  at  first,  but  reassured  by  the 

others, 
Placing  her  hand  on  the  cushion,  her  foot  in  the 

hand  of  her  husband, 


The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish      275 

Gayly,  with  joyous  laugh,  Priscilla  mounted  her 
palfrey. 

"  Nothing  is  wanting  now,"  he  said  with  a  smile, 
"but  the  distaff ; 

Then  you  would  be  in  truth  my  queen,  my  beauti 
ful  Bertha ! " 

Onward   the  bridal   procession   now  moved   to 

their  new  habitation, 
Happy  husband  and  wife,  and  friends  conversing 

together. 
Pleasantly  murmured  the  brook,  as  they  crossed 

the  ford  in  the  forest, 
Pleased  with  the  image  that  passed,  like  a  dream 

of  love  through  its  bosom, 
Tremulous,  floating  in  air,  o'er  the  depths  of  the 

azure  abysses. 

Down  through  the  golden  leaves  the  sun  was  pour 
ing  his  splendors, 
Gleaming  on  purple  grapes,  that,  from  branches 

above  them  suspended, 
Mingled  their  odorous  breath  with  the  balm  of  the 

pine  and  the  fir-tree, 
Wild  and  sweet  as  the  clusters  that  grew  in  the 

valley  of  Eschol. 
Like  a  picture  it  seemed  of  the  primitive,  pastoral 

ages, 
Fresh  with  the  youth  of  the  world,  and  recalling 

Rebecca  and  Isaac, 


276     The  Cmirtship  of  Miles   Standisk 

Old  and  yet  ever  new,  and  simple  and  beautiful 

,  always, 

Love  immortal  and  young  in  the  endless  succes 
sion  of  lovers. 

So  through  the  Plymouth  woods  passed  onward  the 
bridal  procession. 


BIRDS     OF     PASSAGE 


come  i  grn  van  cantando  lor  lai, 
Facendo  in  aer  di  se  lunga  riga. 

DANTK. 


PROMETHEUS, 
OR  THE   POET'S   FORETHOUGHT 

OF  Prometheus,  how  undaunted 
On  Olympus'  shining  bastions 
His  audacious  foot  he  planted, 
Myths  are  told  and  songs  are  chanted, 
Full  of  promptings  and  suggestions. 

Beautiful  is  the  tradition 

Of  that  flight  through  heavenly  portals, 
The  old  classic  superstition 
Of  the  theft  and  the  transmission 

Of  the  fire  of  the  Immortals  ! 

First  the  deed  of  noble  daring, 

Born  of  heavenward  aspiration, 
Then  the  fire  with  mortals  sharing, 
Then  the  vulture,  —  the  despairing 
Cry  of  pain  on  crags  Caucasian. 

All  is  but  a  symbol  painted 
Of  the  Poet,  Prophet,  Seer ; 


2  So  *'vmetheus 

Only  thos^  are  crowned  and  sainted 
Who  ^h  grief  have  been  acquainted, 
-  Making  nations  nobler,  freer. 

In  their  feverish  exultations, 

In  their  triumph  and  their  yearning, 
In  their  passionate  pulsations, 
In  their  words  among  the  nations, 
The  Promethean  fire  is  burning. 

Shall  it,  then,  be  unavailing, 

All  this  toil  for  human  culture  ? 
Through  the  cloud-rack,  dark  and  trailing 
Must  they  see  above  them  sailing 
O'er  life's  barren  crags  the  vulture  ? 

Such  a  fate  as  this  was  Dante's, 

By  defeat  and  exile  maddened  ; 
Thus  were  Milton  and  Cervantes, 
Nature's  priests  and  Corybantes, 
By  affliction  touched  and  saddened. 

But  the  glories  so  transcendent 

That  around  their  memories  cluster, 
And,  on  all  their  steps  attendant, 
Make  their  darkened  lives  resplendent 
With  such  gleams  of  inward  lustre ! 

All  the  melodies  mysterious, 
Through  the  dreary  darkness  chanted ; 


Prometheus  281 

Thoughts  in  attitudes  imperious, 
Voices  soft,  and  deep,  and  serious, 

Words  that  whispered,  songs  that  haunted ! 

All  the  soul  in  rapt  suspension, 

All  the  quivering,  palpitating 
Chords  of  life  in  utmost  tension, 
With  the  fervor  of  invention, 

With  the  rapture  of  creating ! 

Ah,  Prometheus  !  heaven-scaling  ! 

In  such  hours  of  exultation 
Even  the  faintest  heart,  unquailing, 
Might  behold  the  vulture  sailing 

Round  the  cloudy  crags  Caucasian ! 

Though  to  all  there  is  not  given 

Strength  for  such  sublime  endeavor, 

Thus  to  scale  the  walls  of  heaven, 

And  to  leaven  with  fiery  leaven 
All  the  hearts  of  men  forever ; 

Yet  all  bards,  whose  hearts  unblighted 

Honor  and  believe  the  presage, 
Hold  aloft  their  torches  lighted, 
Gleaming  through  the  realms  benighted, 

As  they  onward  bear  the  message  ! 


282         The  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine 


THE  LADDER  OF   ST.    AUGUSTINE 

SAINT  AUGUSTINE !  well  hast  thou  said, 
That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 
A  ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 

Beneath  our  feet  each  deed  of  shame ! 

All  common  things,  each  day's  events, 
That  with  the  hour  begin  and  end, 

Our  pleasures  and  our  discontents, 
Are  rounds  by  which  we  may  ascend. 

The  low  desire,  the  base  design, 
That  makes  another's  virtues  less ; 

The  revel  of  the  ruddy  wine, 
And  all  occasions  of  excess  ; 

The  longing  for  ignoble  things  ; 

The  strife  for  triumph  more  than  truth ; 
The  hardening  of  the  heart,  that  brings 

Irreverence  for  the  dreams  of  youth  ; 

All  thoughts  of  ill ;  all  evil  deeds, 

That  have  their  root  in  thoughts  of  ill ; 

Whatever  hinders  or  impedes 
The  action  of  the  nobler  will ;  — 


The  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine       283 

All  these  must  first  be  trampled  down 
Beneath  our  feet,  if  we  would  gain 

In  the  bright  fields  of  fair  renown 
The  right  of  eminent  domain. 

We  have  not  wings,  we  cannot  soar ; 

But  we  have  feet  to  scale  and  climb 
By  slow  degrees,  by  more  and  more, 

The  cloudy  summits  of  our  time. 

The  mighty  pyramids  of  stone 

That  wedge-like  cleave  the  desert  airs, 

When  nearer  seen,  and  better  known, 
Are  but  gigantic  flights  of  stairs. 

The  distant  mountains,  that  uprear 

Their  solid  bastions  to  the  skies, 
Are  crossed  by  pathways,  that  appear 

As  we  to  higher  levels  rise. 

The  heights  by  great  men  reached  and  kept 
Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight, 

But  they,  while  their  companions  slept, 
Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night. 

Standing  on  what  too  long  we  bore 
With  shoulders  bent  and  downcast  eyes, 

We  may  discern  —  unseen  before  — 
A  path  to  higher  destinies. 


284  The  Phantom  Ship 

Nor  deem  the  irrevocable  Past, 
As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain, 

If,  rising  on  its  wrecks,  at  last 
To  something  nobler  we  attain. 


THE  PHANTOM   SHIP 

IN  Mather's  Magnalia  Christi, 
Of  the  old  colonial  time, 
May  be  found  in  prose  the  legend 
That  is  here  set  down  in  rhyme. 

A  ship  sailed  from  New  Haven, 
And  the  keen  and  frosty  airs, 

That  filled  her  sails  at  parting, 

Were  heavy  with  good  men's  prayers. 

"  O  Lord  !  if  it  be  thy  pleasure  "  — 
Thus  prayed  the  old  divine  — 

"  To  bury  our  friends  in  the  ocean, 
Take  them,  for  they  are  thine  ! " 

But  Master  Lamberton  muttered, 
And  under  his  breath  said  he, 

"This  ship  is  so  crank  and  walty 
I  fear  our  grave  she  will  be  !  " 


The  Phantom  Ship  285 

And  the  ships  that  came  from  England, 
When  the  winter  months  were  gone, 

Brought  no  tidings  of  this  vessel 
Nor  of  Master  Lamberton. 

This  put  the  people  to  praying 

That  the  Lord  would  let  them  hear 

What  in  his  greater  wisdom 

He  had  done  with  friends  so  dear. 

And  at  last  their  prayers  were  answered  :  — 

It  was  in  the  month  of  June, 
An  hour  before  the  sunset 

Of  a  windy  afternoon, 

When,  steadily  steering  landward, 

A  ship  was  seen  below, 
And  they  knew  it  was  Lamberton,  Master, 

Who  sailed  so  long  ago. 

On  she  came,  with  a  cloud  of  canvas, 
Right  against  the  wind  that  blew, 

Until  the  eye  could  distinguish 
The  faces  of  the  crew. 

Then  fell  her  straining  topmasts, 
Hanging  tangled  in  the  shrouds, 

And  her  sails  were  loosened  and  lifted, 
And  blown  away  like  clouds. 


286      The   Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports 

And  the  masts,  with  all  their  rigging, 

Fell  slowly,  one  by  one, 
And  the  hulk  dilated  and  vanished, 

As  a  sea-mist  in  the  sun  ! 

And  the  people  who  saw  this  marvel 
Each  said  unto  his  friend, 

That  this  was  the  mould  of  their  vessel, 
And  thus  her  tragic  end. 

And  the  pastor  of  the  village 
Gave  thanks  to  God  in  prayer, 

That,  to  quiet  their  troubled  spirits, 
He  had  sent  this  Ship  of  Air. 


THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE  PORTS 

A  MIST  was  driving  down  the  British  Channel, 
The  day  was  just  begun, 

And  through  the  window-panes,  on  floor  and  panel, 
Streamed  the  red  autumn  sun. 

It  glanced  on  flowing  flag  and  rippling  pennon, 

And  the  white  sails  of  ships  ; 
And,  from  the  frowning  rampart,  the  black  cannon 

Hailed  it  with  feverish  lips. 


The   Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports      287 

Sandwich  and  Romney,  Hastings,  Hithe,  and  Dover 

Were  all  alert  that  day, 
To  see  the  French  war-steamers  speeding  over, 

When  the  fog  cleared  away. 

Sullen  and  silent,  and  like  couchant  lions, 

Their  cannon,  through  the  night, 
Holding  their  breath,  had  watched,  in  grim  defi 
ance, 

The  sea-coast  opposite. 

And  now  they  roared  at  drum-beat  from  their  sta 
tions 

On  every  citadel ; 
Each  answering  each,  with  morning  salutations, 

That  all  was  well. 

And  down  the  coast,  all  taking  up  the  burden, 

Replied  the  distant  forts, 
As  if  to  summon  from  his  sleep  the  Warden 

And  Lord  of  the  Cinque  Ports. 

Him  shall  no  sunshine  from  the  fields  of  azure, 

No  drum-beat  from  the  wall, 
No  morning  gun  from  the  black  fort's  embrasure, 

Awaken  with  its  call ! 

No  more,  surveying  with  an  eye  impartial 
The  long  line  of  the  coast, 


288      The   Warden  of  the  Cinqiie  Ports 

Shall  the  gaunt  figure  of  the  old  Field  Marshal 
Be  seen  upon  his  post ! 

For  in  the  night,  unseen,  a  single  warrior, 

In  sombre  harness  mailed, 
Dreaded  of  man,  and  surnamed  the  Destroyer, 

The  rampart  wall  had  scaled. 

He  passed  into  the  chamber  of  the  sleeper, 

The  dark  and  silent  room, 
And  as  he  entered,  darker  grew,  and  deeper, 

The  silence  and  the  gloom. 

He  did  not  pause  to  parley  or  dissemble, 

But  smote  the  Warden  hoar ; 
Ah !  what  a  blow  !  that  made  all  England  tremble 

And  groan  from  shore  to  shore. 

Meanwhile,  without,  the  surly  cannon  waited, 

The  sun  rose  bright  o'erhead ; 
Nothing  in  Nature's  aspect  intimated 

That  a  great  man  was  dead. 


Haunted  Houses  289 


HAUNTED    HOUSES 

ALL  houses  wherein  men  have  lived  and  died 
Are  haunted  houses.     Through   the   open 

doors 

The  harmless  phantoms  on  their  errands  glide, 
With  feet  that  make  no  sound  upon  the  floors. 

We  meet  them  at  the  doorway,  on  the  stair, 
Along  the  passages  they  come  and  go, 

Impalpable  impressions  on  the  air, 

A  sense  of  something  moving  to  and  fro. 

There  are  more  guests  at  table,  than  the  hosts 

Invited ;  the  illuminated  hall 
Is  thronged  with  quiet,  inoffensive  ghosts, 

As  silent  as  the  pictures  on  the  wall. 

The  stranger  at  my  fireside  cannot  see 

The  forms  I  see,  nor  hear  the  sounds  I  hear ; 

He  but  perceives  what  is  ;  while  unto  me 
All  that  has  been  is  visible  and  clear. 

We  have  no  title-deeds  to  house  or  lands  ; 

Owners  and  occupants  of  earlier  dates 
From  graves  forgotten  stretch  their  dusty  hands, 

And  hold  in  mortmain  still  their  old  estates. 

VOL.  vi.  13  s 


290  Haunted  Houses 

The  spirit-world  around  this  world  of  sense 
Floats  like  an  atmosphere,  and  everywhere 

Wafts  through  these  earthly  mists  and  vapors  dense 
A  vital  breath  of  more  ethereal  air. 

Our  little  lives  are  kept  in  equipoise 
By  opposite  attractions  and  desires  ; 

The  struggle  of  the  instinct  that  enjoys, 
And  the  more  noble  instinct  that  aspires. 

These  perturbations,  this  perpetual  jar 
Of  earthly  wants  and  aspirations  high, 

Come  from  the  influence  of  an  unseen  star, 
An  undiscovered  planet  in  our  sky. 

And  as  the  moon  from  some  dark  gate  of  cloud 
Throws  o'er  the  sea  a  floating  bridge  of  light, 

Across  whose  trembling  planks  our  fancies  crowd 
Into  the  realm  of  mystery  and  night,  — 

So  from  the  world  of  spirits  there  descends 
A  bridge  of  light,  connecting  it  with  this, 

O'er  whose  unsteady  floor,  that  sways  and  bends, 
Wander  our  thoughts  above  the  dark  abyss. 


In  the  Churchyard  at  Cambridge     291 


IN  THE  CHURCHYARD  AT  CAMBRIDGE 

IN  the  village  churchyard  she  lies, 
Dust  is  in  her  beautiful  eyes, 
No  more  she  breathes,  nor  feels,  nor  stirs ; 
At  her  feet  and  at  her  head 
Lies  a  slave  to  attend  the  dead, 
But  their  dust  is  white  as  hers. 

Was  she  a  lady  of  high  degree, 
So  much  in  love  with  the  vanity 

And  foolish  pomp  of  this  world  of  ours  ? 
Or  was  it  Christian  charity, 
And  lowliness  and  humility, 

The  richest  and  rarest  of  all  dowers  ? 

Who  shall  tell  us  ?    No  one  speaks ; 
No  color  shoots  into  those  cheeks, 

Either  of  anger  or  of  pride, 
At  the  rude  question  we  have  asked  ; 
Nor  will  the  mystery  be  unmasked 

By  those  who  are  sleeping  at  her  side. 

Hereafter  ?  —  And  do  you  think  to  look 
On  the  terrible  pages  of  that  Book 

To  find  her  failings,  faults,  and  errors  ? 
Ah,  you  will  then  have  other  cares, 
In  your  own  shortcomings  and  despairs, 

In  your  own  secret  sins  and  terrors  ! 


292  The  Emperors  Bird's -Nest 


ONCE  the  Emperor  Charles  of  Spain, 
With  his  swarthy,  grave  commanders, 
I  forget  in  what  campaign, 
Long  besieged,  in  mud  and  rain, 
Some  old  frontier  town  of  Flanders. 

Up  and  down  the  dreary  camp, 
In  great  boots  of  Spanish  leather, 

Striding  with  a  measured  tramp, 

These  Hidalgos,  dull  and  damp, 

Cursed  the  Frenchmen,  cursed  the  weather. 

Thus  as  to  and  fro  they  went, 
Over  upland  and  through  hollow, 

Giving  their  impatience  vent, 

Perched  upon  the  Emperor's  tent, 
In  her  nest,  they  spied  a  swallow. 

Yes,  it  was  a  swallow's  nest, 

Built  of  clay  and  hair  of  horses, 
Mane,  or  tail,  or  dragoon's  crest, 
Found  on  hedge-rows  east  and  west, 

After  skirmish  of  the  forces. 


The  Emperors  Bird's -Nest  293 

Then  an  old  Hidalgo  said, 

As  he  twirled  his  gray  mustachio, 

"  Sure  this  swallow  overhead 

Thinks  the  Emperor's  tent  a  shed, 
And  the  Emperor  but  a  Macho  !  " 

Hearing  his  imperial  name 

Coupled  with  those  words  of  malice, 
Half  in  anger,  half  in  shame, 
Forth  the  great  campaigner  came 

Slowly  from  his  canvas  palace. 

"  Let  no  hand  the  bird  molest," 
Said  he  solemnly,  "  nor  hurt  her ! " 

Adding  then,  by  way  of  jest, 

"  Golondrina  is  my  guest, 

'T  is  the  wife  of  some  deserter ! " 

Swift  as  bowstring  speeds  a  shaft, 
Through  the  camp  was  spread  the  rumor, 

And  the  soldiers,  as  they  quaffed 

Flemish  beer  at  dinner,  laughed 
At  the  Emperor's  pleasant  humor. 

So  unharmed  and  unafraid 

Sat  the  swallow  still  and  brooded, 
Till  the  constant  cannonade 
Through  the  walls  a  breach  had  made 
And  the  siege  was  thus  concluded. 


294  The  Two  Angels 

Then  the  army,  elsewhere  bent, 
Struck  its  tents  as  if  disbanding, 

Only  not  the  Emperor's  tent, 

For  he  ordered,  ere  he  went, 

Very  curtly,  "  Leave  it  standing  ! " 

So  it  stood  there  all  alone, 

Loosely  flapping,  torn  and  tattered, 
Till  the  brood  was  fledged  and  flown, 
Singing  o'er  those  walls  of  stone 

Which  the  cannon-shot  had  shattered. 


THE   TWO   ANGELS 

TWO  angels,  one  of  Life  and  one  of  Death, 
Passed  o'er  our  village  as  the  morning  broke ; 
The  dawn  was  on  their  faces,  and  beneath, 

The  sombre  houses  hearsed  with  plumes  of  smoke. 

Their  attitude  and  aspect  were  the  same, 

Alike  their  features  and  their  robes  of  white  ; 

But  one  was  crowned  with  amaranth,  as  with  flame, 
And  one  with  asphodels,  like  flakes  of  light. 

I  saw  them  pause  on  their  celestial  way  ; 

Then  said  I,  with  deep  fear  and  doubt  oppressed, 
"  Beat  not  so  loud,  my  heart,  lest  thou  betray 

The  place  where  thy  beloved  are  at  rest ! " 


The  Two  Angels  295 

And  he  who  wore  the  crown  of  asphodels, 
Descending,  at  my  door  began  to  knock, 

And  my  soul  sank  within  me,  as  in  wells 

The  waters  sink  before  an  earthquake's  shock. 

I  recognized  the  nameless  agony, 

The  terror  and  the  tremor  and  the  pain, 

That  oft  before  had  filled  or  haunted  me, 

And  now  returned  with  threefold  strength  again. 

The  door  I  opened  to  my  heavenly  guest, 

And  listened,  for  I  thought  I  heard  God's  voice ; 

And,  knowing  whatsoe'er  he  sent  was  best, 
Dared  neither  to  lament  nor  to  rejoice. 

Then  with  a  smile,  that  rilled  the  house  with  light, 
"  My  errand  is  not  Death,  but  Life,"  he  said ; 

And  ere  I  answered,  passing  out  of  sight, 
On  his  celestial  embassy  he  sped. 

'T  was  at  thy  door,  O  friend !  and  not  at  mine, 
The  angel  with  the  amaranthine  wreath, 

Pausing,  descended,  and  with  voice  divine, 

Whispered  a  word  that  had  a  sound  like  Death. 

Then  fell  upon  the  house  a  sudden  gloom, 
A  shadow  on  those  features  fair  and  thin  • 

And  softly,  from  that  hushed  and  darkened  room, 
Two  angels  issued,  where  but  one  went  in. 


296  Daylight  and  Moonlight 

All  is  of  God  !     If  he  but  wave  his  hand, 
The  mists  collect,  the  rain  falls  thick  and  loud, 

Till,  with  a  smile  of  light  on  sea  and  land, 
Lo !  he  looks  back  from  the  departing  cloud. 

Angels  of  Life  and  Death  alike  are  his ; 

Without  his  leave  they  pass  no  threshold  o'er ; 
Who,  then,  would  wish  or  dare,  believing  this, 

Against  his  messengers  to  shut  the  door  ? 


DAYLIGHT  AND   MOONLIGHT 


I 


N  broad  daylight,  and  at  noon, 
Yesterday  I  saw  the  moon 
Sailing  high,  but  faint  and  white, 
As  a  school-boy's  paper  kite. 

In  broad  daylight,  yesterday, 
I  read  a  Poet's  mystic  lay ; 
And  it  seemed  to  me  at  most 
As  a  phantom,  or  a  ghost. 

But  at  length  the  feverish  day 
Like  a  passion  died  away, 
And  the  night,  serene  and  still, 
Fell  on  village,  vale,  and  hill. 


The  Jewish  Cemetery  at  Newport     297 

Then  the  moon,  in  all  her  pride, 
Like  a  spirit  glorified, 
Filled  and  overflowed  the  night 
With  revelations  of  her  light. 

And  the  Poet's  song  again 
Passed  like  music  through  my  brain  ; 
Night  interpreted  to  me 
All  its  grace  and  mystery. 


THE  JEWISH   CEMETERY  AT  NEWPORT 

HOW  strange  it  seems!     These  Hebrews  in 
their  graves. 

Close  by  the  street  of  this  fair  seaport  town, 
Silent  beside  the  never-silent  waves, 
At  rest  in  all  this  moving  up  and  down ! 

The  trees  are  white  with  dust,  that  o'er  their  sleep 
Wave  their  broad  curtains  in  the  south-wind's 
breath, 

While  underneath  these  leafy  tents  they  keep 
The  long,  mysterious  Exodus  of  Death. 

And  these  sepulchral  stones,  so  old  and  brown, 
That  pave  with  level  flags  their  burial-place, 
13* 


298      The  Jewish  Cemetery  at  Newport 

Seem  like  the  tablets  of  the  Law,  thrown  down 
And  broken  by  Moses  at  the  mountain's  base. 

The  very  names  recorded  here  are  strange, 
Of  foreign  accent,  and  of  different  climes  ; 

Alvares  and  Rivera  interchange 

With  Abraham  and  Jacob  of  old  times. 

"  Blessed  be  God !  for  he  created  Death  ! " 

The  mourners   said,  "  and   Death   is  rest  and 
peace  "; 

Then  added,  in  the  certainty  of  faith, 

"  And  giveth  Life  that  never  more  shall  cease." 

Closed  are  the  portals  of  their  Synagogue, 
No  Psalms  of  David  now  the  silence  break, 

No  Rabbi  reads  the  ancient  Decalogue 
In  the  grand  dialect  the  Prophets  spake. 

Gone  are  the  living,  but  the  dead  remain, 
And  not  neglected ;  for  a  hand  unseen, 

Scattering  its  bounty,  like  a  summer  rain, 

Still  keeps  their  graves  and  their  remembrance 
green. 

How  came  they  here?    What  burst  of  Christian 
hate, 

WTiat  persecution,  merciless  and  blind, 
Drove  o'er  the  sea  —  that  desert  desolate  — 

These  Ishmaels  and  Hagars  of  mankind  ? 


The  Jewish  Cemetery  at  Newport     299 

They  lived  in  narrow  streets  and  lanes  obscure, 
Ghetto  and  Judenstrass,  in  mirk  and  mire  ; 

Taught  in  the  school  of  patience  to  endure 
The  life  of  anguish  and  the  death  of  fire. 

All  their  lives  long,  with  the  unleavened  bread 
And  bitter  herbs  or  exile  and  its  fears, 

The  wasting  famine  of  the  heart  they  fed, 

And  slaked  its  thirst  with  marah  of  their  tears. 

Anathema  maranatha !  was  the  cry 

That  rang  from  town  to  town,  from  street  to  street ; 
At  every  gate  the  accursed  Mordecai 

Was  mocked  and  jeered,  and  spurned  by  Chris 
tian  feet. 

Pride  and  humiliation  hand  in  hand 

Walked  with  them  through  the  world  where'er 

they  went ; 
Trampled  and  beaten  were  they  as  the  sand, 

And  yet  unshaken  as  the  continent. 

For  in  the  background  figures  vague  and  vast 
Of  patriarchs  and  of  prophets  rose  sublime, 

And  all  the  great  traditions  of  the  Past 
They  saw  reflected  in  the  coming  time. 

And  thus  forever  with  reverted  look 

The  mystic  volume  of  the  world  they  read, 


3OO  Oliver  Basselin 

Spelling  it  backward,  like  a  Hebrew  book, 
Till  life  became  a  Legend  of  the  Dead. 

But  ah  !  what  once  has  been  shall  be  no  more  ! 

The  groaning  earth  in  travail  and  in  pain 
Brings  forth  its  races,  but  does  not  restore, 

And  the  dead  nations  never  rise  again. 


OLIVER    BASSELIN 

IN  the  Valley  of  the  Vire 
Still  is  seen  an  ancient  mill, 
With  its  gables  quaint  and  queer, 
And  beneath  the  window-sill, 
On  the  stone, 
These  words  alone : 
"  Oliver  Basselin  lived  here." 

Far  above  it,  on  the  steep, 

Ruined  stands  the  old  Chateau ; 
Nothing  but  the  donjon-keep 
Left  for  shelter  or  for  show. 
Its  vacant  eyes 
Stare  at  the  skies, 
Stare  at  the  valley  green  and  deep. 


Oliver  Bass  din  301 

Once  a  convent,  old  and  brown, 

Looked,  but  ah  !  it  looks  no  more, 
From  the  neighboring  hillside  down 
On  the  rushing  and  the  roar 
Of  the  stream 
Whose  sunny  gleam 
Cheers  the  little  Norman  town. 

In  that  darksome  mill  of  stone, 
To  the  water's  dash  and  din, 
Careless,  humble,  and  unknown, 
Sang  the  poet  Basselin 
Songs  that  fill 
That  ancient  mill 
With  a  splendor  of  its  own. 

Never  feeling  of  unrest 

Broke  the  pleasant  dream  he  dreamed ; 
Only  made  to  be  his  nest, 
All  the  lovely  valley  seemed  ; 
No  desire 
Of  soaring  higher 
Stirred  or  fluttered  in  his  breast. 

True,  his  songs  were  not  divine  ; 

Were  not  songs  of  that  high  art, 
Which,  as  winds  do  in  the  pine, 
Find  an  answer  in  each  heart ; 
But  the  mirth 
Of  this  green  earth 
Laughed  and  revelled  in  his  line. 


3O2  Oliver  Basselin 

From  the  alehouse  and  the  inn, 
Opening  on  the  narrow  street, 
Came  the  loud,  convivial  din, 
Singing  and  applause  of  feet, 
The  laughing  lays 
That  in  those  days 
Sang  the  poet  Basselin. 

In  the  castle,  cased  in  steel, 

Knights,  who  fought  at  Agincourt, 
Watched  and  waited,  spur  on  heel ; 
But  the  poet  sang  for  sport 
Songs  that  rang 
Another  clang, 
Songs  that  lowlier  hearts  could  feel. 

In  the  convent,  clad  in  gray, 

Sat  the  monks  in  lonely  cells, 
Paced  the  cloisters,  knelt  to  pray, 
And  the  poet  heard  their  bells ; 
But  his  rhymes 
Found  other  chimes, 
Nearer  to  the  earth  than  they. 

Gone  are  all  the  barons  bold, 

Gone  are  all  the  knights  and  squires, 
Gone  the  abbot  stern  and  cold, 
And  the  brotherhood  of  friars ; 
Not  a  name 
Remains  to  fame, 
From  those  mouldering  days  of  old  ! 


Victor  Galbraith  303 

But  the  poet's  memory  here 

Of  the  landscape  makes  a  part ; 
Like  the  river,  swift  and  clear, 

Flows  his  song  through  many  a  heart  ; 
Haunting  still 
That  ancient  mill, 
In  the  Valley  of  the  Vire. 


VICTOR    GALBRAITH 

UNDER  the  walls  of  Monterey 
At  daybreak  the  bugles  began  to  play, 
Victor  Galbraith  ! 

In  the  mist  of  the  morning  damp  and  gray, 
These  were  the  words  they  seemed  to  say  : 
"  Come  forth  to  thy  death, 
Victor  Galbraith !  " 

Forth  he  came,  with  a  martial  tread ; 
Firm  was  his  step,  erect  his  head ; 

Victor  Galbraith, 
He  who  so  well  the  bugle  played, 
Could  not  mistake  the  words  it  said  : 

"  Come  forth  to  thy  death, 

Victor  Galbraith ! " 


304  Victor  Galbraith 

He  looked  at  the  earth,  he  looked  at  the  sky, 
He  looked  at  the  files  of  musketry, 

Victor  Galbraith ! 

And  he  said,  with  a  steady  voice  and  eye, 
"  Take  good  aim  ;  I  am  ready  to  die  !  " 

Thus  challenges  death 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Twelve  fiery  tongues  flashed  straight  and  red, 
Six  leaden  balls  on  their  errand  sped  ; 

Victor  Galbraith 

Falls  to  the  ground,  but  he  is  not  dead ; 
His  name  was  not  stamped  on  those  balls  of  lead, 

And  they  only  scath 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Three  balls  are  in  his  breast  and  brain, 
But  he  rises  out  of  the  dust  again, 

Victor  Galbraith ! 

The  water  he  drinks  has  a  bloody  stain ; 
"  O  kill  me,  and  put  me  out  of  my  pain  !  " 

In  his  agony  prayeth 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Forth  dart  once  more  those  tongues  of  flame, 
'And  the  bugler  has  died  a  death  of  shame, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 

His  soul  has  gone  back  to  whence  it  came, 
And  no  one  answers  to  the  name, 

When  the  Sergeant  saith, 

"  Victor  Galbraith ! 


My  Lost    Youth  305 

Under  the  walls  of  Monterey 
By  night  a  bugle  is  heard  to  play, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 

Through  the  mist  of  the  valley  damp  and  gray 
The  sentinels  hear  the  sound,  and  say, 

"  That  is  the  wraith 

Of  Victor  Galbraith!" 


MY    LOST    YOUTH 

OFTEN  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 
That  is  seated  by  the  sea  ; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 
And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 
And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

i 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees, 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 

Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 

VOL.  VI.  T 


306  My  Lost    Youth 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free  ; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill ; 
The  sun  rise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still  : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away, 
How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide  ! 
And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves,  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay, 


My  Lost    Youth  307 

Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods  ; 
And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a  sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 
In  quiet  neighborhoods. 

And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that  dart 

Across  the  school-boy's  brain  ; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 

And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not  speak ; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die  ; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong  heart  weak, 


308  My  Lost    Youth 

And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill  : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town ; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And   the  trees  that  o'ershadow   each  well-known 

street, 

As  they  balance  up  and  down, 
Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

And  Deering's  Woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were, 
I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 

And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still  : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


The  Ropewalk  309 


THE    ROPEWALK 

IN  that  building,  long  and  low, 
With  its  windows  all  a-row, 
Like  the  port-holes  of  a  hulk, 
Human  spiders  spin  and  spin, 
Backward  down  their  threads  so  thin 
Dropping,  each  a  hempen  bulk. 

At  the  end,  an  open  door ; 
Squares  of  sunshine  on  the  floor 

Light  the  long  and  dusky  lane  ; 
And  the  whirring  of  a  wheel, 
Dull  and  drowsy,  makes  me  feel 

All  its  spokes  are  in  my  brain. 

As  the  spinners  to  the  end 
Downward  go  and  reascend, 

Gleam  the  long  threads  in  the  sun  ; 
While  within  this  brain  of  mine 
Cobwebs  brighter  and  more  fine 

By  the  busy  wheel  are  spun. 

Two  fair  maidens  in  a  swing, 
Like  white  doves  upon  the  wing, 

First  before  my  vision  pass  ; 
Laughing,  as  their  gentle  hands 


3io  The  Ropewalk 

Closely  clasp  the  twisted  strands, 
At  their  shadow  on  the  grass. 

Then  a  booth  of  mountebanks, 
With  its  smell  of  tan  and  planks, 

And  a  girl  poised  high  in  air 
On  a  cord,  in  spangled  dress, 
With  a  faded  loveliness, 

And  a  weary  look  of  care. 

Then  a  homestead  among  farms, 
And  a  woman  with  bare  arms 

Drawing  water  from  a  well ; 
As  the  bucket  mounts  apace, 
With  it  mounts  her  own  fair  face, 

As  at  some  magician's  spell. 

Then  an  old  man  in  a  tower, 
Ringing  loud  the  noontide  hour, 

While  the  rope  coils  round  and  round 
Like  a  serpent  at  his  feet, 
And  again,  in  swift  retreat, 

Nearly  lifts  him  from  the  ground. 

Then  within  a  prison-yard, 
Faces  fixed,  and  stern,  and  hard, 

Laughter  and  indecent  mirth  ; 
Ah !  it  is  the  gallows-tree  ! 
Breath  of  Christian  charity, 

Blow,  and  sweep  it  from  the  earth ! 


The  Golden  Mile- Stone  311 

Then  a  school-boy,  with  his  kite 
Gleaming  in  a  sky  of  light, 

And  an  eager,  upward  look  ; 
Steeds  pursued  through  lane  and  field ; 
Fowlers  with  their  snares  concealed  ; 

And  an  angler  by  a  brook. 

Ships  rejoicing  in  the  breeze, 
Wrecks  that  float  o'er  unknown  seas, 

Anchors  dragged  through  faithless  sand ; 
Sea-fog  drifting  overhead, 
And,  with  lessening  line  and  lead, 

Sailors  feeling  for  the  land. 

All  these  scenes  do  I  behold, 
These,  and  many  left  untold, 

In  that  building  long  and  low  ; 
While  the  wheel  goes  round  and  round, 
With  a  drowsy,  dreamy  sound, 

And  the  spinners  backward  go. 


THE  GOLDEN   MILE-STONE 

LEAFLESS  are  the  trees ;  their  purple  branches 
Spread  themselves  abroad,  like  reefs  of  coral, 

Rising  silent 
In  the  Red  Sea  of  the  winter  sunset. 


312  The  Golden  Mile -Stone 

From  the  hundred  chimneys  of  the  village, 
Like  the  Afreet  in  the  Arabian  story, 

Smoky  columns 
Tower  aloft  into  the  air  of  amber. 

At  the  window  winks  the  flickering  fire-light ; 
Here  and  there  the  lamps  of  evening  glimmer, 

Social  watch-fires 
Answering  one  another  through  the  darkness. 

On  the  hearth  the  lighted  logs  are  glowing, 
And  like  Ariel  in  the  cloven  pine-tree 

For  its  freedom 
Groans  and  sighs  the  air  imprisoned  in  them. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  old  men  seated, 
Seeing  ruined  cities  in  the  ashes, 

Asking  sadly 
Of  the  Past  what  it  can  ne'er  restore  them. 

By  the  fireside  there  are  youthful  dreamers, 
Building  castles  fair,  with  stately  stairways, 

Asking  blindly 
Of  the  Future  what  it  cannot  give  them. 

By  the  fireside  tragedies  are  acted 

In  whose  scenes  appear  two  actors  only, 

Wife  and  husband, 
And  above  them  God  the  sole  spectator. 


The  Golden  Mile -Stone  313 

By  the  fireside  there  are  peace  and  comfort, 
Wives  and  children,  with  fair,  thoughtful  faces, 

Waiting,  watching 
For  a  well-known  footstep  in  the  passage. 

Each  man's  chimney  is  his  Golden  Mile-stone ; 
Is  the  central  point,  from  which  he  measures 

Every  distance 
Through  the  gateways  of  the  world  around  him. 

In  his  farthest  wanderings  still  he  sees  it ; 

Hears  the  talking  flame,  the  answering  night-wind, 

As  he  heard  them 
When  he  sat  with  those  who  were,  but  are  not. 

Happy  he  whom  neither  wealth  nor  fashion, 
Nor  the  march  of  the  encroaching  city, 

Drives  an  exile 
From  the  hearth  of  his  ancestral  homestead. 

We  may  build  more  splendid  habitations, 

Fill  our  rooms  with  paintings  and  with  sculptures, 

But  we  cannot 
Buy  with  gold  the  old  associations ! 


VOL.  VI.  14 


3M  Grtrafa    ITn 


7AWBA    WINE 


A     IsaSogcflfceTi 

To  be 

:: 


7: 

:- ._-  -  --  -- 


;  T~.~    ~  "_ 
•  : : 


;   -"-t  -i"ii  if::-.;    I:   I'll:. 


For  rkbest  2nd  best 

I-    .:-      .-.-   ::"-_-.-       rr  . 


Wmt  315 


as  fccfiov  trees 

Are  tfe  bannts  of  bees, 

. .  _  .  , 


Mirt  i-  :,- 
There 


7:: 


316  Catawba    Wine 

When  shipped  o'er  the  reeling  Atlantic, 

To  rack  our  brains 

With  the  fever  pains, 
That  have  driven  the  Old  World  frantic. 

To  the  sewers  and  sinks 

With  all  such  drinks, 
And  after  them  tumble  the  mixer ; 

For  a  poison  malign 

Is  such  Borgia  wine, 
Or  at  best  but  a  Devil's  Elixir. 

While  pure  as  a  spring 

Is  the  wine  I  sing, 
And  to  praise  it,  one  needs  but  name  it ; 

For  Catawba  wine 

Has  need  of  no  sign, 
No  tavern-bush  to  proclaim  it 

And  this  Song  of  the  Vine, 

This  greeting  of  mine, 
The  winds  and  the  birds  shall  deliver 

To  the  Queen  of  the  West, 

In  her  garlands  dressed, 
On  the  banks  of  tile  Beautiful  River. 


Santa  Filomena  317 


SANTA    FILOMENA 


W 


HEXE'ER  a  noble  deed  is  wrought, 
Whene'er  is  spoken  a  noble  thought, 
Our  hearts,  in  glad  surprise, 
To  higher  levels  rise. 


The  tidal  wave  of  deeper  souls 

Into  our  inmost  being  rolls, 
And  lifts  us  unawares 
Out  of  all  meaner  cares. 

Honor  to  those  whose  words  or  deeds 
Thus  help  us  in  our  daily  needs, 
And  by  then-  overflow 
Raise  us  from  what  is  low ! 

Thus  thought  I,  as  by  night  I  read 
Of  the  great  army  of  the  dead, 
The  trenches  cold  and  damp, 
The  starved  and  frozen  camp,  — 

The  wounded  from  the  battle-plain, 

In  drean'  hospitals  of  pain, 
The  cheerless  corridors, 
The  cold  and  stony  floors. 


318  Santa  Filomena 

Lo  !  in  that  house  of  misery 

A  lady  with  a  lamp  I  see 

Pass  through  the  glimmering  gloom, 
And  flit  from  room  to  room. 

And  slow,  as  in  a  dream  of  bliss, 
The  speechless  sufferer  turns  to  kiss 
Her  shadow,  as  it  falls 
Upon  the  darkening  walls. 

As  if  a  door  in  heaven  should  be 
Opened  and  then  closed  suddenly, 
The  vision  came  and  went, 
The  light  shone  and  was  spent 

On  England's  annals,  through  the  long 
Hereafter  of  her  speech  and  song, 
That  light  its  rays  shall  cast 
From  portals  of  the  past. 

A  Lady  with  a  Lamp  shall  stand 
In  the  great  history  of  the  land, 

A  noble  type  of  good, 

Heroic  womanhood. 

Nor  even  shall  be  wanting  here 
The  palm,  the  lily,  and  the  spear, 

The  symbols  that  of  yore 

Saint  Filomena  bore. 


The  Discoverer  of  the  North  Cape     319 


THE  DISCOVERER  OF  THE  NORTH 
CAPE 

A   LEAF  FROM   KING  ALFRED'S   OROSIUS 

O THERE,  the  old  sea-captain, 
Who  dwelt  in  Helgoland, 
To  King  Alfred,  the  Lover  of  Truth, 
Brought  a  snow-white  walrus-tooth, 

Which  he  held  in  his  brown  right  hand. 

His  figure  was  tall  and  stately, 
Like  a  boy's  his  eye  appeared ; 

His  hair  was  yellow  as  hay, 

But  threads  of  a  silvery  gray 
Gleamed  in  his  tawny  beard. 

Hearty  and  hale  was  Othere, 
His  cheek  had  the  color  of  oak ; 

With  a  kind  of  laugh  in  his  speech, 

Like  the  sea-tide  of  a  beach, 
As  unto  the  King  he  spoke. 

And  Alfred,  King  of  the  Saxons, 

Had  a  book  upon  his  knees, 
And  wrote  down  the  wondrous  tale 
Of  him  who  was  first  to  sail 

Into  the  Arctic  seas. 


320      The  Discoverer  of  the  North  Cape 

"  So  far  I  live  to  the  northward, 

No  man  lives  north  of  me  ; 
To  the  east  are  wild  mountain-chains, 
And  beyond  them  meres  and  plains ; 

To  the  westward  all  is  sea. 

"  So  far  I  live  to  the  northward, 
From  the  harbor  of  Skeringes-hale, 

If  you  only  sailed  by  day, 

With  a  fair  wind  all  the  way, 

More  than  a  month  would  you  sail. 

"  I  own  six  hundred  reindeer, 

With  sheep  and  swine  beside  j 
I  have  tribute  from  the  Finns, 
Whalebone  and  reindeer-skins, 
And  ropes  of  walrus-hide. 

"  I  ploughed  the  land  with  horses, 
But  my  heart  was  ill  at  ease, 

For  the  old  seafaring  men 

Came  to  me  now  and  then, 

With  their  sagas  of  the  seas  ;  — 

"  Of  Iceland  and  of  Greenland, 
'  And  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
And  the  undiscovered  deep  ;  — 
O  I  could  not  eat  nor  sleep 
For  thinking  of  those  seas. 


The  Discoverer  of  the  North  Cape    321 

"To  the  northward  stretched  the  desert, 

How  far  I  fain  would  know  ; 
So  at  last  I  sallied  forth, 
And  three  days  sailed  due  north, 

As  far  as  the  whale-ships  go. 

"  To  the  west  of  me  was  the  ocean, 
To  the  right  the  desolate  shore, 

But  I  did  not  slacken  sail 

For  the  walrus  or  the  whale, 
Till  after  three  days  more. 

"  The  days  grew  longer  and  longer, 

Till  they  became  as  one, 
And  southward  through  the  haze 
I  saw  the  sullen  blaze 

Of  the  red  midnight  sun. 

"  And  then  uprose  before  me, 

Upon  the  water's  edge, 
The  huge  and  haggard  shape 
Of  that  unknown  North  Cape, 

Whose  form  is  like  a  wedge. 

"  The  sea  was  rough  and  stormy, 
The  tempest  howled  and  wailed, 

And  the  sea-fog,  like  a  ghost, 

Haunted  that  dreary  coast, 
But  onward  still  I  sailed. 
VOL.  vi.  14*  u 


322     The  Discoverer  of  the  North  Cape 

"  Four  days  I  steered  to  eastward, 

Four  days  without  a  night  : 
Round  in  a  fiery  ring 
Went  the  great  sun,  O  King, 
With  red  and  lurid  light." 

Here  Alfred,  King  of  the  Saxons, 

Ceased  writing  for  a  while  ; 
And  raised  his  eyes  from  his  book, 
With  a  strange  and  puzzled  look, 
And  an  incredulous  smile. 

But  Othere,  the  old  sea-captain, 
He  neither  paused  nor  stirred, 
Till  the  King  listened  and  then 
Once  more  took  up  his  pen, 
And  wrote  down  every  word. 

"  And  now  the  land,"  said  Othere, 
"  Bent  southward  suddenly, 

And  I  followed  the  curving  shore 

And  ever  southward  bore 
Into  a  nameless  sea. 

"And  there  we  hunted  the  walrus, 
The  narwhale,  and  the  seal ; 

Ha !  't  was  a  noble  game ! 

And  like  the  lightning's  flame 
Flew  our  harpoons  of  steel. 


The  Discoverer  of  the  North  Cape     323 

"  There  were  six  of  us  all  together, 

Norsemen  of  Helgoland ; 
In  two  days  and  no  more 
We  killed  of  them  threescore, 

And  dragged  them  to  the  strand !  " 

Here  Alfred  the  Truth -Teller 

Suddenly  closed  his  book, 
And  lifted  his  blue  eyes, 
With  doubt  and  strange  surmise 

Depicted  in  their  look. 

And  O  there  the  old  sea-captain 

Stared  at  him  wild  and  weird, 
Then  smiled,  till  his  shining  teeth 
Gleamed  white  from  underneath 

His  tawny,  quivering  beard. 

And  to  the  King  of  the  Saxons, 

In  witness  of  the  truth, 
Raising  his  noble  head, 
He  stretched  his  brown  hand,  and  said, 

"  Behold  this  walrus-tooth ! " 


324  Daybreak 


DAYBREAK 

A  WIND  came  up  out  of  the  sea, 
And  said,  "  O  mists,  make  room  for  me." 

It  hailed  the  ships,  and  cried,  "  Sail  on, 
Ye  mariners,  the  night  is  gone." 

And  hurried  landward  far  away, 
Crying,  "  Awake !  it  is  the  day." 

It  said  unto  the  forest,  "  Shout ! 
Hang  all  your  leafy  banners  out !  " 

It  touched  the  wood-bird's  folded  wing, 
And  said,  "O  bird,  awake  and  sing." 

And  o'er  the  farms,  "  O  chanticleer, 
Your  clarion  blow ;  the  day  is  near." 

It  whispered  to  the  fields  of  corn, 

"  Bow  down,  and  hail  the  coming  morn." 

It  shouted  through  the  belfry-tower, 
"Awake,  O  bell !  proclaim  the  hour." 

It  crossed  the  churchyard  with  a  sigh, 
And  said,  "  Not  yet !  in  quiet  lie." 


The  Fiftieth  Birthday  of  Agassis      325 

THE  FIFTIETH   BIRTHDAY  OF  AGASSIZ 

MAY  28,  1857. 

IT  was  fifty  years  ago 
In  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 
In  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud, 
A  child  in  its  cradle  lay. 

And  Nature,  the  old  nurse,  took 

The  child  upon  her  knee, 
Saying  :  "  Here  is  a  story-book 

Thy  Father  has  written  for  thee." 

"  Come,  wander  with  me,"  she  said, 

"  Into  regions  yet  untrod  ; 
And  read  what  is  still  unread 

In  the  manuscripts  of  God." 

And  he  wandered  away  and  away 
With  Nature,  the  dear  old  nurse, 

Who  sang  to  him  night  and  day 
The  rhymes  of  the  universe. 

And  whenever  the  way  seemed  long, 

Or  his  heart  began  to  fail, 
She  would  sing  a  more  wonderful  song, 

Or  tell  a  more  marvellous  tale. 


326  Children 

So  she  keeps  him  still  a  child, 

And  will  not  let  him  go, 
Though  at  times  his  heart  beats  wild 

For  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud ; 

Though  at  times  he  hears  in  his  dreams 
The  Ranz  des  Vaches  of  old, 

And  the  rush  of  mountain  streams 
From  glaciers  clear  and  cold  ; 

And  the  mother  at  home  says,  "  Hark ! 

For  his  voice  I  listen  and  yearn  ; 
It  is  growing  late  and  dark, 

And  my  boy  does  not  return ! " 


CHILDREN 


to  me,  O  ye  children  ! 
For  I  hear  you  at  your  play, 
And  the  questions  that  perplexed  me 
Have  vanished  quite  away. 

Ye  open  the  eastern  windows, 
That  look  towards  the  sun, 

Where  thoughts  are  singing  swallows 
And  the  brooks  of  morning  run. 


Children  327 

In  your  hearts  are  the  birds  and  the  sunshine, 
In  your  thoughts  the  brooklet's  flow, 

But  in  mine  is  the  wind  of  Autumn 
And  the  first  fall  of  the  snow. 

Ah  !  what  would  the  world  be  to  us 

If  the  children  were  no  more  ? 
We  should  dread  the  desert  behind  us 

Worse  than  the  dark  before. 

What  the  leaves  are  to  the  forest, 

With  light  and  air  for  food, 
Ere  their  sweet  and  tender  juices 

Have  been  hardened  into  wood,  — 

That  to  the  world  are  children  ; 

Through  them  it  feels  the  glow 
Of  a  brighter  and  sunnier  climate 

Than  reaches  the  trunks  below. 

Come  to  me,  O  ye  children  ! 

And  whisper  in  my  ear 
What  the  birds  and  the  winds  are  singing 

In  your  sunny  atmosphere. 

For  what  are  all  our  contrivings, 

And  the  wisdom  of  our  books, 
When  compared  with  your  caresses, 

And  the  gladness  of  your  looks  ? 


328  Sandalphon 

Ye  are  better  than  all  the  ballads 
That  ever  were  sung  or  said  ; 

For  ye  are  living  poems, 
And  all  the  rest  are  dead. 


SANDALPHON 

HAVE  you  read  in  the  Talmud  of  old, 
In  the  Legends  the  Rabbins  have  told 
Of  the  limitless  realms  of  the  air, 
Have  you  read  it,  —  the  marvellous  story 
Of  Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Glory, 
Sandalphon,  the  Angel  of  Prayer  ? 

How,  erect,  at  the  outermost  gates 
Of  the  City  Celestial  he  waits, 

With  his  feet  on  the  ladder  of  light, 
That,  crowded  with  angels  unnumbered, 
By  Jacob  was  seen,  as  he  slumbered 

Alone  in  the  desert  at  night  ? 

The  Angels  of  Wind  and  of  Fire 
Chant  only  one  hymn,  and  expire 

WTith  the  song's  irresistible  stress  ; 
Expire  in  their  rapture  and  wonder, 
As  harp-strings  are  broken  asunder 

By  music  they  throb  to  express. 


Sandalphon  329 

But  serene  in  the  rapturous  throng, 
Unmoved  by  the  rush  of  the  song, 

With  eyes  unimpassioned  and  slow, 
Among  the  dead  angels,  the  deathless 
Sandalphon  stands  listening  breathless 

To  sounds  that  ascend  from  below  ;  — 

From  the  spirits  on  earth  that  adore, 
From  the  souls  that  entreat  and  implore 

In  the  fervor  and  passion  of  prayer  ; 
From  the  hearts  that  are  broken  with  losses, 
And  weary  with  dragging  the  crosses 

Too  heavy  for  mortals  to  bear. 

And  he  gathers  the  prayers  as  he  stands, 
And  they  change  into  flowers  in  his  hands, 

Into  garlands  of  purple  and  red  ; 
And  beneath  the  great  arch  of  the  portal, 
Through  the  streets  of  the  City  Immortal 

Is  wafted  the  fragrance  they  shed. 

It  is  but  a  legend,  I  know,  — 
A  fable,  a  phantom,  a  show, 

Of  the  ancient  Rabbinical  lore  ; 
Yet  the  old  mediaeval  tradition, 
The  beautiful,  strange  superstition, 

But  haunts  me  and  holds  me  the  more. 


33O  Sandalphon 

When  I  look  from  my  window  at  night, 
And  the  welkin  above  is  all  white, 

All  throbbing  and  panting  with  stars, 
Among  them  majestic  is  standing 
Sandalphon  the  angel,  expanding 

His  pinions  in  nebulous  bars. 

And  the  legend,  I  feel,  is  a  part 

Of  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  heart, 

The  frenzy  and  fire  of  the  brain, 
That  grasps  at  the  fruitage  forbidden, 
The  golden  pomegranates  of  Eden, 

To  quiet  its  fever  and  pain. 


Epimetheus  331 

EPIMETHEUS, 
OR  THE   POET'S   AFTERTHOUGHT 

HAVE  I  dreamed  ?  or  was  it  real, 
What  I  saw  as  in  a  vision, 
When  to  marches  hymeneal 
In  the  land  of  the  Ideal 

Moved  my  thought  o'er  Fields  Elysian  ? 

What !  are  these  the  guests  whose  glances 
Seemed  like  sunshine  gleaming  round  me  ? 

These  the  wild,  bewildering  fancies, 

That  with  dithyrambic  dances 
As  with  magic  circles  bound  me  ? 

Ah !  how  cold  are  their  caresses  ! 

Pallid  cheeks,  and  haggard  bosoms  ! 
Spectral  gleam  their  snow-white  dresses, 
And  from  loose,  dishevelled  tresses 

Fall  the  hyacinthine  blossoms  ! 

O  my  songs  !  whose  winsome  measures 
Filled  my  heart  with  secret  rapture  ! 

Children  of  my  golden  leisures ! 

Must  even  your  delights  and  pleasures 
Fade  and  perish  with  the  capture  ? 


332  Epimetheus 

Fair  they  seemed,  those  songs  sonorous, 

When  they  came  to  me  unbidden  ; 
Voices  single,  and  in  chorus, 
Like  the  wild  birds  singing  o'er  us 
In  the  dark  of  branches  hidden. 

Disenchantment !     Disillusion  ! 

Must  each  noble  aspiration 
Come  at  last  to  this  conclusion, 
Jarring  discord,  wild  confusion, 

Lassitude,  renunciation  ? 

Not  with  steeper  fall  nor  faster, 
From  the  sun's  serene  dominions, 

Not  through  brighter  realms  nor  vaster, 

In  swift  ruin  and  disaster, 

Icarus  fell  with  shattered  pinions  ! 

Sweet  Pandora  !  dear  Pandora  ! 

Why  did  mighty  Jove  create  thee 
Coy  as  Thetis,  fair  as  Flora, 
Beautiful  as  young  Aurora, 

If  to  win  thee  is  to  hate  thee  ? 

No,  not  hate  thee  !  for  this  feeling 
Of  unrest  and  long  resistance 

Is  but  passionate  appealing, 

A  prophetic  whisper  stealing 
O'er  the  chords  of  our  existence. 


EpimetJieus  333 

Him  whom  thou  dost  once  enamor, 

Thou,  beloved,  never  leavest ; 
In  life's  discord,  strife,  and  clamor, 
Still  he  feels  thy  spell  of  glamour  ; 

Him  of  Hope  thou  ne'er  bereavesL 

Weary  hearts  by  thee  are  lifted, 

Struggling  souls  by  thee  are  strengthened, 
Clouds  of  fear  asunder  rifted, 
Truth  from  falsehood  cleansed  and  sifted, 

Lives,  like  days  in  summer,  lengthened  ! 

Therefore  art  thou  ever  dearer, 

O  my  Sibyl,  my  deceiver  ! 
For  thou  makest  each  mystery  clearer, 
And  the  unattained  seems  nearer, 

When  thou  fillest  my  heart  with  fever ! 

Muse  of  all  the  Gifts  and  Graces  ! 

Though  the  fields  around  us  wither, 
There  are  ampler  realms  and  spaces, 
Where  no  foot  has  left  its  traces  : 

Let  us  turn  and  wander  thither ! 


NOTES 


NOTES 


THE  GOLDEN  LEGEND.  The  old  Legenda  Aurea,  or 
Golden  Legend,  was  originally  written  in  Latin,  in  the  thir 
teenth  century,  by  Jacobus  de  Voragine,  a  Dominican  friar, 
who  afterwards  became  Archbishop  of  Genoa,  and  died  in 
1292. 

He  called  his  book  simply  "  Legends  of  the  Saints."  The 
epithet  of  Golden  was  given  it  by  his  admirers  ;  for,  as  Wyn- 
kin  de  Worde  says,  "  Like  as  passeth  gold  in  value  all  other 
metals,  so  this  Legend  exceedeth  all  other  books."  But 
Edward  Leigh,  in  much  distress  of  mind,  calls  it  "a  book 
written  by  a  man  of  a  leaden  heart  for  the  basencsse  of  the 
errours,  that  are  without  wit  or  reason,  and  of  a  brazen  fore 
head,  for  his  impudent  boldnesse  in  reporting  things  so  fabu 
lous  and  incredible. " 

This  work,  the  great  text-book  of  the  legendary  lore  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  was  translated  into  French  in  the  fourteenth 
century  by  Jean  de  Vignay,  and  in  the  fifteenth  into  English 
by  William  Caxton.  It  has  lately  been  made  more  accessible 
by  a  new  French  translation  :  La  Lfgmde  Dork,  traduite  du 
Latin,  par  M.  G.  B.  Paris,  1850.  There  is  a  copy  of  the 
original,  with  the  Gtsta  Longobardorum  appended,  in  the 
Harvard  College  Library,  Cambridge,  printed  at  Strasburg, 
1496.  The  title-page  is  wanting  ;  and  the  volume  begins 
with  the  Tabula  Legendorum. 

I  have  called  this  poem  the  Golden  Legend,  because  the 
story  upon  which  it  is  founded  seems  to  me  to  surpass  all 

VOL.  VL  15  V 


338  Notes 

other  legends  in  beauty  and  significance.  It  exhibits,  amid 
the  corruptions  of  the  Middle  Ages,  the  virtue  of  disinterest 
edness  and  self-sacrifice,  and  the  power  of  Faith,  Hope,  and 
Charity,  sufficient  for  all  the  exigencies  of  life  and  death.  The 
story  is  told,  and  perhaps  invented,  by  Hartmann  von  der 
Aue,  a  Minnesinger  of  the  twelfth  century.  The  original  may 
be  found  in  Mailath's  Altdeutsche  Gedichte,  with  a  modern 
German  version.  There  is  another  in  Marbach's  Volksbiicher, 
No.  32. 

Page  8.    For  these  bells  have  been  anointed, 
And  baptized  with  holy  water  ! 

The  Consecration  and  Baptism  of  Bells  is  one  of  the  most 
curious  ceremonies  of  the  Church  in  the  Middle  Ages.  The 
Council  of  Cologne  ordained  as  follows  :  — 

"Let  the  bells  be  blessed,  as  the  trumpets  of  the  Church 
militant,  by  which  the  people  are  assembled  to  hear  the  word 
of  God ;  the  clergy  to  announce  his  mercy  by  day,  and  his 
truth  in  their  nocturnal  vigils :  that  by  their  sound  the  faith 
ful  may  be  invited  to  prayers,  and  that  the  spirit  of  devotion 
in  them  may  be  increased.  The  fathers  have  also  maintained 
that  demons  affrighted  by  the  sound  of  bells  calling  Chris 
tians  to  prayers,  would  flee  away ;  and  when  they  fled,  the 
persons  of  'the  faithful  would  be  secure  :  that  the  destruction 
of  lightnings  and  whirlwinds  would  be  averted,  and  the  spirits 
of  the  storm  defeated. "  —  Edinburgh  Encyclop&dia,  Art. 
Bells.  See  also  Scheible's  Kloster,  VI.  776. 

Page  52.     It  is  the  malediction  of  Eve  ! 

"Nee  esses  plus  quam  femina,  quae  nunc  etiam  viros  tran- 
scendis,  et  quae  maledictionem  Evse  in  benedictionem  vertisti 
Marias. "  —  Epistola  Abalardi  Heloisstz. 


Notes  339 

Page  82.     To  come  back  to  my  text ! 

In  giving  this  sermon  of  Friar  Cuthbert  as  a  specimen  of 
the  Risus  Paschales,  or  street-preaching  of  the  monks  at  East 
er,  I  have  exaggerated  nothing.  This  very  anecdote,  offen 
sive  as  it  is,  conies  from  a  discourse  of  Father  Barletta,  a 
Dominican  friar  of  the  fifteenth  century,  whose  fame  as  a 
popular  preacher  was  so  great,  that  it  gave  rise  to  the  proverb, 

Nescit  predicare 
Qui  nescit  Barlettare. 

"  Among  the  abuses  introduced  in  this  century,"  says  Tira- 
boschi,  "was  that  of  exciting  from  the  pulpit  the  laughter  of 
the  hearers ;  as  if  that  were  the  same  thing  as  converting 
them.  We  have  examples  of  this,  not  only  in  Italy,  but  also 
in  France,  where  the  sermons  of  Menot  and  Maillard,  and  of 
others,  who  would  make  a  better  appearance  on  the  stage 
than  in  the  pulpit,  are  still  celebrated  for  such  follies." 

If  the  reader  is  curious  to  see  how  far  the  freedom  of 
speech  was  carried  in  these  popular  sermons,  he  is  referred  to 
Scheible's  Kloster,  Vol.  I.,  where  he  will  find  extracts  from 
Abraham  a  Sancta  Clara,  Sebastian  Frank,  and  others ;  and 
in  particular  an  anonymous  discourse  called  Der  Grduel  der 
Verwustung,  The  Abomination  of  Desolation,  preached  at 
Ottakring,  a  village  west  of  Vienna,  November  25,  1782,  in 
which  the  license  of  language  is  carried  to  its  utmost  limit 

See  also  Predicatoriana,  ou  Revelations  singultires  et  amu- 
santes  sur  les  Predicateurs  ;  par  G.  P.  Philomneste.  (Menin. ) 
This  work  contains  extracts  from  the  popular  sermons  of  St 
Vincent  Ferrier,  Barletta,  Menot,  Maillard,  Marini,  Raulin, 
Valladier,  De  Besse,  Camus,  Pere  Andre,  Bening,  and  the 
most  eloquent  of  all,  Jacques  Brydaine. 

My  authority  for  the  spiritual  interpretation  of  bell-ringing, 
which  follows,  is  Durandus,  Ration.  Divin.  Offic.,  Lib.  I. 
cap.  4. 


34O  Notes 

Page  89.     THE  NATIVITY  :  a  Miracle-Play. 

A  singular  chapter  in  the  history  of  the  Middle  Ages  is  that 
which  gives  account  of  the  early  Christian  Drama,  the  Mys 
teries,  Moralities,  and  Miracle-Plays,  which  were  at  first  per 
formed  in  churches,  and  afterwards  in  the  streets,  on  fixed  or 
movable  stages.  For  the  most  part,  the  Mysteries  were 
founded  on  the  historic  portions  of  the  Old  and  New  Testa 
ments,  and  the  Miracle-Plays  on  the  lives  of  Saints  ;  a  dis 
tinction  not  always  observed,  however,  for  in  Mr.  Wright's 
"  Early  Mysteries  and  other  Latin  Poems  of  the  Twelfth  and 
Thirteenth  Centuries,"  the  Resurrection  of  Lazarus  is  called  a 
Miracle,  and  not  a  Mystery.  The  Moralities  were  plays,  in 
which  the  Virtues  and  Vices  were  personified. 

The  earliest  religious  play,  which  has  been  preserved,  is  the 
Christos  Paschon  of  Gregory  Nazianzen,  written  in  Greek,  in 
the  fourth  century.  Next  to  this  come  the  remarkable  Latin 
plays  of  Roswitha,  the  Nun  of  Gandersheim,  in  the  tenth 
century,  which,  though  crude  and  wanting  in  artistic  con 
struction,  are  marked  by  a  good  deal  of  dramatic  power  and 
interest.  A  handsome  edition  of  these  plays,  with  a  French 
translation,  has  been  lately  published,  entitled  Thedtre  de 
Rotsvitha,  Religiense  allemande  du  Xe  Sihle.  Par  Charles 
Magnin.  Paris,  1845. 

The  most  important  collections  of  English  Mysteries  and 
Miracle-Plays  are  those  known  as  the  Townley,  the  Chester, 
and  the  Coventry  Plays.  The  first  of  these  collections  has 
been  published  by  the  Surtees  Society,  and  the  other  two  by 
the  Shakespeare  Society.  In  his  Introduction  to  the  Cov 
entry  Mysteries,  the  editor,  Mr.  Halliwell,  quotes  the  follow 
ing  passage  from  Dugdale's  Antiquities  of  Warwickshire:  — 

"Before  the  suppression  of  the  monasteries,  this  city  was 
very  famous  for  the  pageants,  that  were  played  therein,  upon 
Corpus-Christi  day  ;  which,  occasioning  very  great  confluence 
of  people  thither,  from  far  and  near,  was  of  no  small  benefit 


Notes  341 

thereto  ;  which  pageants  being  acted  with  mighty  state  and 
reverence  by  the  friars  of  this  house,  had  theaters  for  the  sev- 
erall  scenes,  very  large  and  high,  placed  upon  wheels,  and 
drawn  to  all  the  eminent  parts  of  the  city,  for  the  better  ad 
vantage  of  spectators  :  and  contain'd  the  story  of  the  New 
Testament,  composed  into  old  English  Rithme,  as  appeareth 
by  an  ancient  MS.  intituled  Ludus  Corporis  Christi,  or  Lu- 
dus  Conventria.  I  have  been  told  by  some  old  people,  who 
in  their  younger  years  were  eyewitnesses  of  these  pageants  so 
acted,  that  the  yearly  confluence  of  people  to  see  that  shew 
was  extraordinary  great,  and  yielded  no  small  advantage  to 
this  city." 

The  representation  of  religious  plays  has  not  yet  been 
wholly  discontinued  by  the  Roman  Church.  At  Ober-Am- 
mergau,  in  the  Tyrol,  a  grand  spectacle  of  this  kind  is  exhib 
ited  once  in  ten  years.  A  very  graphic  description  of  that 
which  took  place  in  the  year  1850  is  given  by  Miss  Anna 
Mary  Howitt,  in  her  "Art- Student  in  Munich,"  Vol.  I. 
Chap.  IV.  She  says  :  — 

' '  We  had  come  expecting  to  feel  our  souls  revolt  at  so 
material  a  representation  of  Christ,  as  any  representation  of 
him  we  naturally  imagined  must  be  in  a  peasant's  Miracle- 
Play.  Yet  so  far,  strange  to  confess,  neither  horror,  disgust, 
nor  contempt  was  excited  in  our  minds.  Such  an  earnest 
solemnity  and  simplicity  breathed  throughout  the  whole  of 
the  performance,  that  to  me,  at  least,  anything  like  anger, 
or  a  perception  of  the  ludicrous,  would  have  seemed  more 
irreverent  on  my  part  than  was  this  simple,  childlike  render 
ing  of  the  sublime  Christian  tragedy.  We  felt  at  times  as 
though  the  figures  of  Cimabue's,  Giotto's,  and  Perugino's 
pictures  had  become  animated,  and  were  moving  before  us ; 
there  was  the  same  simple  arrangement  and  brilliant  color  of 
drapery,  —  the  same  earnest,  quiet  dignity  about  the  heads, 
whilst  the  entire  absence  of  all  theatrical  effect  wonderfully 


342  Notes 

increased  the  illusion.  There  were  scenes  and  groups  so 
extraordinarily  like  the  early  Italian  pictures,  that  you  could 
have  declared  they  were  the  works  of  Giotto  and  Perugino, 
and  not  living  men  and  women,  had  not  the  figures  moved 
and  spoken,  and  the  breeze  stirred  their  richly  colored  dra 
pery,  and  the  sun  cast  long,  moving  shadows  behind  them  on 
the  stage.  These  effects  of  sunshine  and  shadow,  and  of  dra 
pery  fluttered  by  the  wind,  were  very  striking  and  beautiful ; 
one  could  imagine  how  the  Greeks  must  have  availed  them 
selves  of  such  striking  effects  in  their  theatres  open  to  the  sky. " 

Mr.  Bayard  Taylor,  in  his  "Eldorado,"  gives  a  description 
of  a  Mystery  he  saw  performed  at  San  Lionel,  in  Mexico. 
See  Vol.  II.  Chap.  XI. 

"  Against  the  wing- wall  of  the  Hacienda  del  Mayo,  which 
occupied  one  end  of  the  plaza,  was  raised  a  platform,  on 
which  stood  a  table  covered  with  scarlet  cloth.  A  rude 
bower  of  cane-leaves,  on  one  end  of  the  platform,  represented 
the  manger  of  Bethlehem ;  while  a  cord,  stretched  from  its 
top  across  the  plaza  to  a  hole  in  the  front  of  the  church,  bore 
a  large  tinsel  star,  suspended  by  a  hole  in  its  centre.  There 
was  quite  a  crowd  in  the  plaza,  and  very  soon  a  procession 
appeared,  coming  up  from  the  lower  part  of  the  village.  The 
three  kings  took  the  lead ;  the  Virgin,  mounted  on  an  ass 
that  gloried  in  a  gilded  saddle  and  rose-besprinkled  mane 
and  tail,  followed  them,  led  by  the  angel ;  and  several  wo 
men,  with  curious  masks  of  paper,  brought  up  the  rear.  Two 
characters  of  the  harlequin  sort  —  one  with  a  dog's  head  on 
his  shoulders,  and  the  other  a  bald-headed  friar,  with  a  huge 
hat  hanging  on  his  back  —  played  all  sorts  of  antics  for  the 
diversion  of  the  crowd.  After  making  the  circuit  of  the  plaza, 
the  Virgin  was  taken  to  the  platform,  and  entered  the  manger. 
King  Herod  took  his  seat  at  the  scarlet  table,  with  an  attend 
ant  in  blue  coat  and  red  sash,  whom  I  took  to  be  his  Prime 
Minister.  The  three  kings  remained  on  their  horses  in  front 


Notes  343 

of  the  church ;  but  between  them  and  the  platform,  under  the 
string  on  which  the  star  was  to  slide,  walked  two  men  in  long 
white  robes  and  blue  hoods,  with  parchment  folios  in  their 
hands.  These  were  the  Wise  Men  of  the  East,  as  one  might 
readily  know  from  their  solemn  air,  and  the  mysterious  glan 
ces  which  they  cast  towards  all  quarters  of  the  heavens. 

"  In  a  little  while,  a  company  of  women  on  the  platform, 
concealed  behind  a  curtain,  sang  an  angelic  chorus  to  the  tune 
of  '  O  pescator  dell'onda. '  At  the  proper  moment,  the  Magi 
turned  towards  the  platform,  followed  by  the  star,  to  which 
a  string  was  conveniently  attached,  that  it  might  be  slid  along 
the  line.  The  three  kings  followed  the  star  till  it  reached  the 
manger,  when  they  dismounted,  and  inquired  for  the  sover 
eign  whom  it  had  led  them  to  visit  They  were  invited  upon 
the  platform,  and  introduced  to  Herod,  as  the  only  king; 
this  did  not  seem  to  satisfy  them,  and,  after  some  conversa 
tion,  they  retired.  By  this  time  the  star  had  receded  to  the 
other  end  of  the  line,  and  commenced  moving  forward  again, 
they  following.  The  angel  called  them  into  the  manger, 
where,  upon  their  knees,  they  were  shown  a  small  wooden 
box,  supposed  to  contain  the  sacred  infant ;  they  then  retired, 
and  the  star  brought  them  back  no  more.  After  this  depart 
ure,  King  Herod  declared  himself  greatly  confused  by  what 
he  had  witnessed,  and  was  very  much  afraid  this  newly  found 
king  would  weaken  his  power.  Upon  consultation  with  his 
Prime  Minister,  the  Massacre  of  the  Innocents  was  decided 
upon,  as  the  only  means  of  security. 

"  The  angel,  on  hearing  this,  gave  warning  to  the  Virgin, 
who  quickly  got  down  from  the  platform,  mounted  her  be 
spangled  donkey,  and  hurried  off.  Herod's  Prime  Minister 
directed  all  the  children  to  be  handed  up  for  execution.  A 
boy,  in  a  ragged  sarape,  was  caught  and  thrust  forward  ;  the 
Minister  took  him  by  the  heels  in  spite  of  his  kicking,  and 
held  his  head  on  the  table.  The  little  brother  and  sister  of 


344  Notes 

the  boy,  thinking  he  was  really  to  be  decapitated,  yelled  at 
the  top  of  their  voices,  in  an  agony  of  terror,  which  threw  the 
crowd  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  King  Herod  brought  down 
his  sword  with  a  whack  on  the  table,  and  the  Prime  Minister, 
dipping  his  brush  into  a  pot  of  white  paint  which  stood  before 
him,  made  a  flaring  cross  on  the  boy's  face.  Several  other 
boys  were  caught  and  served  likewise ;  and,  finally,  the  two 
harlequins,  whose  kicks  and  struggles  nearly  shook  down  the 
platform.  The  procession  then  went  off  up  the  hill,  followed 
by  the  whole  population  of  the  village.  All  the  evening 
there  were  fandangos  in  the  meson,  bonfires  and  rockets  on 
the  plaza,  ringing  of  bells,  and  high  mass  in  the  church,  with 
the  accompaniment  of  two  guitars,  tinkling  to  lively  polkas. " 
In  1852  there  was  a  representation  of  this  kind  by  Germans 
in  Boston  :  and  I  have  now  before  me  the  copy  of  a  play -bill, 
announcing  the  performance,  on  June  10,  1852,  in  Cincinnati, 
of  the  "  Great  Biblico- Historical  Drama,  the  Life  of  Jesus 
Christ,"  with  the  characters  and  the  names  of  the  performers. 

Page  118.     THE  SCRIPTORIUM. 

A  most  interesting  volume  might  be  written  on  the  Calli- 
graphers  and  Chrysographers,  the  transcribers  and  illumina 
tors  of  manuscripts  in  the  Middle  Ages.  These  men  were  for 
the  most  part  monks,  who  labored,  sometimes  for  pleasure 
and  sometimes  for  penance,  in  multiplying  copies  of  the  clas 
sics  and  the  Scriptures. 

"  Of  all  bodily  labors,  which  are  proper  for  us,"  says  Cas- 
siodorus,  the  old  Calabrian  monk,  "that  of  copying  books 
has  always  been  more  to  my  taste  than  any  other.  The  more 
so,  as  in  this  exercise  the  mind  is  instructed  by  the  reading  of 
the  Holy  Scriptures,  and  it  is  a  kind  of  homily  to  the  others, 
whom  these  books  may  reach.  It  is  preaching  with  the  hand, 
by  converting  the  fingers  into  tongues ;  it  is  publishing  to 
men  in  silence  the  words  of  salvation  ;  in  fine,  it  is  fighting 


Notes  345 

against  the  demon  with  pen  and  ink.  As  many  words  as  a 
transcriber  writes,  so  many  wounds  the  demon  receives.  In  a 
word,  a  recluse,  seated  in  his  chair  to  copy  books,  travels  into 
different  provinces,  without  moving  from  the  spot,  and  the 
labor  of  his  hands  is  felt  even  where  he  is  not." 

Nearly  every  monastery  was  provided  with  its  Scriptorium. 
Nicolas  de  Clairvaux,  St  Bernard's  secretary,  in  one  of  his 
letters  describes  his  cell,  which  he  calls  Scriptoriolum,  where 
he  copied  books.  And  Mabillon,  in  his  Etudes  Monastiques, 
says  that  in  his  time  were  still  to  be  seen  at  Citeaux  "many 
of  those  little  cells,  where  the  transcribers  and  bookbinders 
worked. " 

Silvestre's  Paleographie  Universelle  contains  a  vast  number 
of  fac-similes  of  the  most  beautiful  illuminated  manuscripts  of 
all  ages  and  all  countries  ;  and  Montfaucon  in  his  Palceogra- 
fhia  Grceca  gives  the  names  of  over  three  hundred  calligra- 
phers.  He  also  gives  an  account  of  the  books  they  copied, 
and  the  colophons,  with  which,  as  with  a  satisfactory  nourish 
of  the  pen,  they  closed  their  long-continued  labors.  Many 
of  these  are  very  curious  ;  expressing  joy,  humility,  remorse  ; 
entreating  the  reader's  prayers  and  pardon  for  the  writer's 
sins ;  and  sometimes  pronouncing  a  malediction  on  any  one 
who  should  steal  the  book.  A  few  of  these  I  subjoin  : — 

"  As  pilgrims  rejoice,  beholding  their  native  land,  so  are 
transcribers  made  glad,  beholding  the  end  of  a  book." 

"  Sweet  is  it  to  write  the  end  of  any  book." 

"  Ye  who  read,  pray  for  me,  who  have  written  this  book, 
the  humble  and  sinful  Theodulus." 

"  As  many  therefore  as  shall  read  this  book,  pardon  me,  I 
beseech  you,  if  aught  I  have  erred  in  accent  acute  and  grave, 
in  apostrophe,  in  breathing  soft  or  aspirate ;  and  may  God 
save  you  all !  Amen." 

"If  anything  is  well,  praise  the  transcriber;  if  ill,  pardon 
his  unskilfulness. " 


346  Notes 

"  Ye  who  read,  pray  for  me,  the  most  sinful  of  all  men,  for 
the  Lord's  sake." 

"The  hand  that  has  written  this  book  shall  decay,  alas  ! 
and  become  dust,  and  go  down  to  the  grave,  the  corrupter  of 
all  bodies.  But  all  ye  who  are  of  the  portion  of  Christ,  pray 
that  I  may  obtain  the  pardon  of  my  sins.  Again  and  again  I 
beseech  you  with  tears,  brothers  and  fathers,  accept  my  mis 
erable  supplication,  O  holy  choir  !  I  am  called  John,  woe  is 
me  !  I  am  called  Hiereus,  or  Sacerdos,  in  name  only,  not  in 
unction. " 

"  Whoever  shall  carry  away  this  book,  without  permission 
of  the  Pope,  may  he  incur  the  malediction  of  the  Holy  Trin 
ity,  of  the  Holy  Mother  of  God,  of  Saint  John  the  Baptist, 
of  the  one  hundred  and  eighteen  holy  Nicene  Fathers,  and  of 
all  the  Saints ;  the  fate  of  Sodom  and  Gomorrah ;  and  the 
halter  of  Judas  !  Anathema,  amen. " 

"  Keep  safe,  O  Trinity,  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  my 
three  fingers,  with  which  I  have  written  this  book." 

"Mathusalas  Machir  transcribed  this  divinest  book  in  toil, 
infirmity,  and  dangers  many." 

"  Bacchius  Barbardorius  and  Michael  Sophianus  wrote  this 
book  in  sport  and  laughter,  being  the  guests  of  their  noble 
and  common  friend  Vincentius  Pinellus,  and  Petrus  Nunnius, 
a  most  learned  man. " 

This  last  colophon,  Montfaucon  does  not  suffer  to  pass 
without  reproof.  "Other  calligraphers,"  he  remarks,  "de 
mand  only  the  prayers  of  their  readers,  and  the  pardon  of 
their  sins  ;  but  these  glory  in  their  wantonness." 

Page  130.     Drink  down  to  your  peg! 

One  of  the  canons  of  Archbishop  Ansel  m,  promulgated  at 
the  beginning  of  the  twelfth  century,  ordains  "that  priests  go 
not  to  drinking-bouts,  nor  drink  to  pegs. "  In  the  times  of 
the  hard-drinking  Danes,  King  Edgar  ordained  that  "pins  or 


Notes  347 

nails  should  be  fastened  into  the  drinking-cups  or  horns  at 
stated  distances,  and  whosoever  should  drink  beyond  those 
marks  at  one  draught  should  be  obnoxious  to  a  severe  punish 
ment." 

Sharpe,  in  his  History  of  the  Kings  of  England,  says : 
"  Our  ancestors  were  formerly  famous  for  compotation  ;  their 
liquor  was  ale,  and  one  method  of  amusing  themselves  in  this 
way  was  with  the  peg-tankard.  I  had  lately  one  of  them  in 
my  hand.  It  had  on  the  inside  a  row  of  eight  pins,  one  above 
another,  from  top  to  bottom.  It  held  two  quarts,  and  was  a 
noble  piece  of  plate,  so  that  there  was  a  gill  of  ale,  half  a 
pint  Wincester  measure,  between  each  peg.  The  law  was, 
that  every  person  that  drank  was  to  empty  the  space  between 
pin  and  pin,  so  that  the  pins  were  so  many  measures  to  make 
the  company  all  drink  alike,  and  to  swallow  the  same  quan 
tity  of  liquor.  This  was  a  pretty  sure  method  of  making  all 
the  company  drunk,  especially  if  it  be  considered  that  the 
rule  was,  that  whoever  drank  short  of  his  pin,  or  beyond  it, 
was  obliged  to  drink  again,  and  even  as  deep  as  to  the  next 
pin." 

Page  133.      The  convent  of  St.  Gildas  de  Rhuys. 

Abelard,  in  a  letter  to  his  friend  Philintus,  gives  a  sad  pic 
ture  of  this  monastery.  "I  live,"  he  says,  "in  a  barbarous 
country,  the  language  of  which  I  do  not  understand  ;  I  have 
no  conversation  but  with  the  rudest  people,  my  walks  are 
on  the  inaccessible  shore  of  a  sea,  which  is  perpetually 
stormy,  my  monks  are  only  known  by  their  dissoluteness, 
and  living  without  any  rule  or  order,  could  you  see  the  abby, 
Philintus,  you  would  not  call  it  one.  the  doors  and  walls  are 
without  any  ornament,  except  the  heads  of  wild  boars  and 
hinds  feet,  which  are  nailed  up  against  them,  and  the  hides 
of  frightful  animals,  the  cells  are  hung  with  the  skins  of  deer, 
the  monks  have  not  so  much  as  a  bell  to  wake  them,  the 


348  Notes 

cocks  and  dogs  supply  that  defect,  in  short,  they  pass  their 
whole  days  in  hunting ;  would  to  heaven  that  were  their  great 
est  fault !  or  that  their  pleasures  terminated  there  !  I  endeav 
or  in  vain  to  recall  them  to  their  duty ;  they  all  combine 
against  me,  and  I  only  expose  myself  to  continual  vexations 
and  dangers.  I  imagine  I  see  every  moment  a  naked  sword 
hang  over  my  head,  sometimes  they  surround  me,  and  load 
me  with  infinite  abuses  ;  sometimes  they  abandon  me,  and  I 
am  left  alone  to  my  own  tormenting  thoughts.  I  make  it  my 
endeavor  to  merit  by  my  sufferings,  and  to  appease  an  angry 
God.  sometimes  I  grieve  for  the  loss  of  the  house  of  the 
Paraclete,  and  wish  to  see  it  again,  ah  Philintus,  does  not 
the  love  of  Heloise  still  burn  in  my  heart  ?  I  have  not  yet 
triumphed  over  that  unhappy  passion,  in  the  midst  of  my 
retirement  I  sigh,  I  weep,  I  pine,  I  speak  the  dear  name 
Heloise,  and  am  pleased  to  hear  the  sound. "  —  Letters  of  the 
Celebrated  Abelard  and  Heloise.  Translated  by  Mr.  John 
Hughes.  Glasgow,  1751. 

Page.  162.      Were  it  not  for  my  magic  garters  and  staff. 

The  method  of  making  the  Magic  Garters  and  the  Magic 
Staff  is  thus  laid  down  in  Les  Secrets  Merveilleux  du  Petit 
Albert,  a  French  translation  of  Alberti  Parvi  Lutii  Libellus  de 
Mirabilibus  Natures  Arcanis :  — 

"Gather  some  of  the  herb  called  motherwort,  when  the 
sun  is  entering  the  first  degree  of  the  sign  of  Capricorn  ;  let  it 
dry  a  little  in  the  shade,  and  make  some  garters  of  the  skin  of 
a  young  hare ;  that  is  to  say,  having  cut  the  skin  of  the  hare 
into  strips  two  inches  wide,  double  them,  sew  the  before-men 
tioned  herb  between,  and  wear  them  on  your  legs.  No  horse 
can  long  keep  up  with  a  man  on  foot,  who  is  furnished  with 
these  garters. "  —  p.  1 28. 

"Gather,  on  the  morrow  of  All-Saints,  a  strong  branch  of 
willow,  of  which  you  will  make  a  staff,  fashioned  to  your  lik- 


Notes  349 

ing.  Hollow  it  out,  by  removing  the  pith  from  within,  after 
having  furnished  the  lower  end  with  an  iron  ferule.  Put  into 
the  bottom  of  the  staff  the  two  eyes  of  a  young  wolf,  the 
tongue  and  heart  of  a  dog,  three  green  lizards,  and  the  hearts 
of  three  swallows.  These  must  all  be  dried  in  the  sun,  be 
tween  two  papers,  having  been  first  sprinkled  with  finely 
pulverized  saltpetre.  Besides  all  these,  put  into  the  staff 
seven  leaves  of  vervain,  gathered  on  the  eve  of  St.  John  the 
Baptist,  with  a  stone  of  divers  colors,  which  you  will  find  in 
the  nest  of  the  lapwing,  and  stop  the  end  of  the  staff  with  a 
pomel  of  box,  or  of  any  other  material  you  please,  and  be 
assured,  that  this  staff  will  guarantee  you  from  the  perils  and 
mishaps  which  too  often  befall  travellers,  either  from  robbers, 
wild  beasts,  mad  dogs,  or  venomous  animals.  It  will  also 
procure  you  the  good-will  of  those  with  whom  you  lodge."  — 
p.  130. 

Page  171.     Saint  Elmo's  stars. 

So  the  Italian  sailors  call  the  phosphorescent  gleams  that 
sometimes  play  about  the  masts  and  rigging  of  ships. 

Page  173.     THE  SCHOOL  OF  SALERNO. 

For  a  history  of  the  celebrated  schools  of  Salerno  and 
Monte-Cassino,  the  reader  is  referred  to  Sir  Alexander 
Croke's  Introduction  to  the  Regimen  Sanitatis  Salernitanum  ; 
and  to  Kurt  Sprengel's  Geschichte  der  Arzneikunde,  I.  463,  or 
Jourdan's  French  translation  of  it,  Histoire  de  la  Medecine,  II. 
354- 
Page  282.  That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 

A  ladder. 

The  words  of  St.  Augustine  are,  "De  vitiis  nostris  scalam 
nobis  facimus,  si  vitia  ipsa  calcamus." 

Sermon  III.  De  Ascensione. 


350  Notes 

Page  284.     THE  PHANTOM  SHIP. 

A  detailed  account  of  this  "apparition  of  a  Ship  in  the 
Air"  is  given  by  Cotton  Mather  in  his  Magnalia  Christi, 
Book  I.  Ch.  VI.  It  is  contained  in  a  letter  from  the  Rev. 
James  Pierpont,  Pastor  of  New  Haven.  To  this  account 
Mather  adds  these  words  :  — 

"  Reader,  there  being  yet  living  so  many  credible  gentle 
men,  that  were  eyewitnesses  of  this  wonderful  thing,  I  ven 
ture  to  publish  it  for  a  thing  as  undoubted  as  't  is  wonderful." 

Page  293.     And  the  Emperor  but  a  Macho. 

Macho,  in  Spanish,  signifies  a  mule.  Golondrina  is  the 
feminine  form  of  Golondrino,  a  swallow,  and  also  a  cant  name 
for  a  deserter. 

Page  300.     OLIVER  BASSELIN. 

Oliver  Basselin,  the  "  Ptre  joyeux  du  Vaudeville"  flour 
ished  in  the  fifteenth  century,  and  gave  to  his  convivial  songs 
the  name  of  his  native  valleys,  in  which  he  sang  them,  Vaux- 
de-Vire.  This  name  was  afterwards  corrupted  into  the  mod 
ern  Vaudeville. 

Page  303.     VICTOR  GALBRAITH. 

This  poem  is  founded  on  fact  Victor  Galbraith  was  a 
bugler  in  a  company  of  volunteer  cavalry ;  and  was  shot  in 
Mexico  for  some  breach  of  discipline.  It  is  a  common  super 
stition  among  soldiers,  that  no  balls  will  kill  them  unless  their 
names  are  written  on  them.  The  old  proverb  says,  "Every 
bullet  has  its  billet." 

Page  306.     /  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away. 

This  was  the  engagement  between  the  Enterprise  and 
Boxer,  off  the  harbor  of  Portland,  in  which  both  captains 


Notes  351 

were  slain.     They  were  buried  side  by  side,  in  the  cemetery 
on  Mountjoy. 

Page  317.     SANTA  FILOMENA. 

"  At  Pisa  the  church  of  San  Francisco  contains  a  chapel 
dedicated  lately  to  Santa  Filomena ;  over  the  altar  is  a  pic 
ture,  by  Sabatelli,  representing  the  Saint  as  a  beautiful, 
nymph-like  figure,  floating  down  from  heaven,  attended  by 
two  angels  bearing  the  lily,  palm,  and  javelin,  and  beneath, 
in  the  foreground,  the  sick  and  maimed,  who  are  healed  by 
her  intercession." — MRS.  JAMESON,  Sacred  and  Legendary 
Art,  II.  298. 


Cambridge  :  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


1998 


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